Let it Snow!
by ProcrastinatingPalindrome
Summary: An innocent invitation to the ballet turns into more than America and Russia bargained for. Chapter Ten: The ballet ends and the truth finally comes to light. Russia/America
1. Chapter 1

_Pang!_

Another rock bounced off Russia's bedroom window. Russia squeezed his pillow over his ears, trying to block out the sound. No good, he heard yet another _pang!_ as the latest rock was thrown. What had he done to deserve this? A full night of sleep, that was all he wanted. Was it so much to ask? Apparently so, in the mind of his mysterious invader. The trouble had started just a little after midnight; the phone rang. Russia has already turned in for the night and decided that whatever it was could wait until morning. The phone rang again. He ignored it. Another ring. He ignored it some more. The phone continued to ring for what felt like hours until at last it fell blissfully silent. Russia had almost fallen back asleep when someone started banging on his front door with the kind of urgency usually reserved for people being chased by bears. In the present circumstance, Russia wouldn't have minded if whoever was knocking _was_ being chased by a bear, and again tried to ignore it. The knocking, just like the ringing, went on and on. He had been foolish to think that the trouble was over when the knocking stopped, because only minutes after that the invader started throwing rocks at his window.

Even without answering the phone or looking out the window, he had a fairly good idea of who was responsible. There were only so many people he knew who were that persistent...and unable to take a hint. He was tempted to just keep trying to go back to sleep, but unless his ears were deceiving him, the rocks being thrown were getting progressively larger. If the invader was indeed who Russia thought it was, he wouldn't hesitate to break a window. He actually _had_ broken one of Russia's windows while pulling a similar stunt to get the larger country's attention, back when they were...well, back when they were still getting along.

It had been snowing heavily the last time Russia looked outside, and a broken window in the current weather would be a problem. Reluctantly, he drug himself out of his warm bed and threw open the window...just in time for another rock to go whizzing past his ear and land on bedroom floor with a thump. He stared at the rock before turning his attention to America (he had guess right) standing in about a foot of snow and lifting what was more of a boulder than a rock. Where on earth had he found so many? Fortunately the younger country noticed that the window had opened before he could chuck the oversized projectile, and dropped the huge rock harmlessly into the snow.

"Oh th-th-thank God you're aw-w-wake!" Even two stories up, Russia could see him shivering. "Let m-m-me in already, I'm f-f-freezing my b-balls off!"

"I don't really know why I should. I am tired and you woke me up. I am...what is that expression you use? Not a happy camper."

"Y-y-yeah, okay, s-s-sorry, b-but you w-wouldn't answer the ph-phone or d-d-door and I've got s-something important to t-t-t-talk to you about!"

"...At two in the morning."

"I've g-got serious j-jet lag and I'm actually awake r-r-right now. C-come on, man!"

"You could have talked to me about this important something at the meeting with our bosses earlier today."

"N-no, 'cause th-that was serious p-political talk t-time. I d-d-don't like mixing that st-stuff with f-f-fun stuff. P-plus, jet lag. I w-was a z-z-zombie. Sh-shit, it's so f-fucking cold! L-let me in!"

America was right about that, at least. He _had_ been somewhat...groggy at the meeting. Obama had to keep nudging him to keep him from nodding off while Medvedev was talking.

"I will let you in out of pity, da?" he said at last, slamming the window shut before America could respond.

America all but ran inside when Russia unlocked his front door, still shivering. "My g-god, your winter is _insane_," he moaned, brushing snow off his clothes. "Remind me to never come back until your place defrosts."

"You are welcome to leave. The door is behind you," Russia said with false sweetness. "I can direct you to an airport and you will be home in no time. We will both be much happier when you are gone, da?"

"Do you have to be such an asshole?"

"After you woke me up by calling me in the middle of the night, tried to break my door down and threw rocks at my window, da, I do. The only reason I didn't just leave you to freeze is because I was worried you would break my window again."

"Thought you said you let me in out of pity...and what do you mean, again? When did I ever break your window?"

Russia's mouth closed sharply. He shouldn't have brought that incident up. "A long time ago," he said flatly, hoping America would drop it. No such luck.

"Like how long ago? 'Cause I really don't remember-...oh! Wait, I do! It was...shoot, nineteenth century? Yeah, I was staying with you for a month, and it was really late but I wanted to wake you up because...uh..."

"There was a meteor shower," Russia said before he could stop himself.

"Oh yeah! It was a really great one, tons of shooting stars, and I wanted you to come watch with me...but you didn't answer when I knocked, so I threw rocks."

"And you broke my window," Russia said with a note of finality, trying to stop the story right there. He didn't want to remember the rest of it. America had been so excited about the meteor shower, and Russia had a hard time being angry about the window (especially when America laughed and promised to help him fix it later.) They found a good place to sit and watch under the open sky, and America told him to make a wish on a star (what did he wish for? He couldn't remember that anymore.) They stayed out almost until dawn, but ended up paying little attention to the stars...

Damn. Stop thinking about that right now. Stop thinking.

"...house always looks so much bigger from the outside," America was saying by the time Russia got his head back to the present.

"Did you have something to talk to me about or not? You _did_ wake me up in the middle of the night, I would hope it wasn't for nothing."

"Yeah, I can tell you just got up. You've got serious bedhead. And cute jammies, by the way. What's that monkey-bear thing on 'em?"

Russia looked down at himself. He had forgotten that he was wearing the Cheburashka pajamas Ukraine gave him for his birthday last year.

"He's a character from a cartoon you've never heard of," he informed America with as much dignity as he could muster. "And he is not a monkey-bear thing, he is an animal unknown to science."

"Whatever, dude. You aren't allowed to make fun of my Mickey Mouse boxers anymore."

"Did you come here to tell me something, or just to waste my time?"

"Nonono, I've got something to tell you. No, actually something to _ask_ you." America, having thawed out enough to be charming, turned on a smile that would have made an iceberg melt. "What are you doing on the 24th?"

"Of December?" Russia asked, trying not to look at America directly when he was smiling like that. That grin had a history of effecting him in embarrassing ways.

"Yep, Christmas Eve, a week from now. Got any plans?"

"How is that any of your business?"

"So you don't, huh?"

"I did not say that."

"You may as well have. Wanna do something with me?"

"That would depend on what the something is, da?" Russia answered lightly, trying to ignore how his heart had sped up a little. America wasn't asking him on a date, was he? No, of course not. It was that stupid smile of his, it was making Russia all confused. That smile should be illegal. It could be more dangerous than a nuclear weapon, if America knew what kind of effect it had on Russia.

"Nope, can't tell you. You have to agree to do it first!"

"Then no."

"Aw, come on! It's something fun! I'll give you a hint; I've got something in my pocket that we'll need in order to do the thing I have in mind."

Did that idiot have any idea how that sounded? And did he have to keep smiling like that?! Russia found himself in serious danger of blushing like a schoolgirl if the younger country didn't knock it off soon.

"I don't know. You'll have to tell me."

"Come on, guess! What have I got in my pocket? And it's not a magic ring." When Russia gave him a blank look, America shuffled his feet awkwardly. "That's England's joke."

"Ah. I always thought British humor wasn't very funny."

"Shut up, okay? Look, you can have another hint; it's got to do with something you like a lot."

"You don't have a bottle of vodka in your pocket, I know that."

"Nope."

"...A sunflower seed?"

"Bzzz! Try again."

"I am too tired for guessing games, America."

"Fine, I'll show you. Man, you're so lame!" America reached into his pocket and pulled out...two slips of paper? No, they were tickets. Russia plucked them out of America's hand and looked closer. Two tickets to the New York City Ballet's production of The Nutcracker. He looked over the tickets at America, who was bouncing on the balls of his feet excitedly.

"So what do you think, huh?"

"I did not think you liked ballet," Russia said blandly, not entirely sure how to answer. "Why would you buy tickets?"

"I didn't, that's the thing. I won them from a radio contest! I was the 25th caller and I got free tickets. And at first I was like, 'man, what am I going to do with these?' And then I thought, 'hey! Russia's a total ballet fag-'...I mean fan," he corrected when Russia's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I thought, 'Russia's a ballet fan, so I bet he'd like a free ticket.'"

Russia looked back down at the tickets again. They weren't bad seats, really.

"I could go to the Moscow Ballet, you know."

"Yeah, you could. But it wouldn't be the New York City Ballet."

"The dancers would be better than in New York."

"You better not be talking smack about my dancers."

"And I could get better seats there too."

"Maybe, but you wouldn't be sitting next to me."

"I am busy on the 24th," Russia lied, running out of excuses.

America rolled his eyes. "Bull shit. You're probably just going to sit at home and get plastered on your lonesome."

That was a startling accurate description of how Russia had spent the past few Christmases, and for once the older country found that he had nothing to say. America took advantage of his temporary speechlessness, snatched one of the tickets out of his hand and gave him a hearty slap on the back.

"Just think about it, okay? Give me a call or whatever when you've made up your mind. And maybe...I dunno..." It was America's turn to look a little flustered. "Maybe you can come over the day before the ballet and we can...hang out. Like we used to. Just for a little bit. Either way, really. Only if you want to. W-well, I'll see you later!"

America was out the door and back into the cold before Russia had the time to offer him a coat to borrow. Funny, the house suddenly felt a little bigger and colder. He looked back at the ticket in his hand, and imagined for a second that the thick paper felt warm under his fingers. _Maybe_, he thought. _Maybe._

Notes:

Holy smokes, it's a fic without history! Or at least not much history. I might throw in bits of stuff here and there. Anyway, I'm going back and forth about whether or not to continue this or leave it as a oneshot...any opinions either way? I don't usually write multi-chapter fics, but maybe I'll give it a whirl.


	2. Chapter 2

The ballet ticket was still sitting innocently on Russia's desk the next morning. He circled the desk slowly, frowning at the offending slip of paper. He had been too sleepy the previous night to question America's motives, but now that he was awake he was suspicious. What kind of game was the younger country trying to play with him? Was he trying to get Russia to let his guard down? Was this some kind of bribe? A weak bribe, in that case, but still.

Or worse, was this...pity? America had half-joked that Russia would spend Christmas Eve getting drunk by himself...did he know that was more or less what he had done for the past few Christmases? Was America just offering to spend time with him because Russia struck him as so pathetic? Russia shuddered. There were a thousand things he would rather be than pitied, especially by America.

No, surely it wasn't that. More likely this was just that irritating, insincere way America tried to be friends with almost everyone. Stupid, petty, thoughtless little gestures that didn't mean anything. He didn't _really_ want to spend time with Russia, he just wanted to be the good guy. Do something 'nice' so he can feel good about it afterward. Disgusting.

Russia felt stupid for even considering taking him up on the invitation last night. He didn't need America and his stupid ballet ticket. He had plenty of people he could spend the holidays with! Sure, he had spent the last few years alone, but he had chosen to celebrate them that way. A bottle of vodka could be very good company! If he had wanted, he could have called one of his allies to spend time with him...he just chose not to. He didn't _need_ to have anyone around...but suddenly he felt the need to make plans for the 24th of December. That would show America. Russia had a hundred better things to do than waste a night with him, and he certainly didn't need the younger country to keep him company. And he absolutely wasn't lonely. Not one bit.

And he wasn't nervous about calling up some of his old allies and former house guests to ask them to spend time with him, but he had a drink first anyway, to take the edge off (not that there _was_ an edge to be taken off, of course.) And then another drink. And then a third. After the fourth he _definitely_ wasn't feeling nervous. Lithuania's number was the first in his phone book, and his fingers hesitated for just a second before he punched in the numbers. Just be friendly, he reminded himself. Nothing to worry about, just be friendly.

"Privet, Lithuania!" Russia sang in what he hoped was his nicest voice when he heard the phone pick up.

"Er...good morning, Russia." Lithuania's voice was somewhat less enthusiastic. "Have...um...how have you been lately?"

"Good, good! Wonderful! Splendid!" Ha, what had he ever been worried about? Being friendly was easy! He could do this all day!

"...Have you been drinking, Russia?"

"What? Nyet, of course not!" There was a pause on the other line. "Ah, maybe a little. Lithuania knows me too well~"

"Russia-"

"Oh, don't say anything about that. I have more important things to talk with you about! Such as...ah..." Damn, what had he called for again? The liquid courage had done wonders to calm his nerves, but now his head was a little fuzzy... "Wait, I remember! The 24th! Are you busy on the 24th? I hope you aren't!"

"Oh...um...I'm sorry, but...well...I _do_ already have plans."

"....oh."

"I-I am sorry about this," Lithuania said, but the fact that he honestly did sound sorry didn't do much to raise Russia's quickly plummeting spirits. "I made plans to spend the whole week with-"

"Fine. That's fine. Don't sound so worried, I'm not angry. Have...have fun." He hung up quickly before Lithuania could respond. Well, that didn't go as well as he had hoped. But that was only one person! No need to get depressed over that. He'd find someone else easily.

China's number was next. It rang and rang. No answer. Russia hung up and tried again. Still no answer. Leaving that one for later, he tried the other Baltics. Sealand answered the phone at Latvia's house and told him to stop bugging Latvia unless he wanted a rocket punch in the face. Estonia claimed that his computer had a virus and he was much too busy trying to fix it. Russia scratched their names off his list and tried China's number a third time.

"What do you want?" China snapped before Russia could say anything. "You keep calling and calling! This better be important!"

"It _is_ important," Russia assured him. "Do you want to do something with me on the 24th? A nice friendly get-together, da?"

There was an irritated sigh on the other end. "Do you have any idea how busy I am?"

"...Very busy?" Russia guessed.

"Yes very busy! I don't have any time to waste with personal meetings-"

Russia could hear another voice pip up in the background: "But Mr. Wang, what about your plans with Mr. Honda-"

"Ah, shut up, shut up!" China's voice shot up an octave as he tried to silence the other man before turning his attention back to Russia. "I-I was saying, I only have time for business these days."

"Business and Japan," Russia muttered sullenly.

"Th-that's just a business meeting, aru!" China growled, his speech tic slipping back in as it always did when he was flustered. "And even if it wasn't, it doesn't concern you. Bother someone else, aru!"

Russia put the phone back down and tried not to feel discouraged. The liquid courage was starting to wear off and he felt much less sure of himself. Who else could he call? He tried Poland.

"Pol-" he began, but was cut off by a _click_ as Poland hung up on him. Well. Maybe he should have expected that.

He called Germany next. Prussia answered instead, and told him to stick the phone in a place where phones didn't belong. Georgia said frankly that she'd rather have teeth pulled than hang out with him. Kazakhstan didn't answer the phone and Russia didn't bother to leave a message. Czech Republic was spending the holiday with Slovakia and didn't want any third wheels. France already had plans to go to a party. So did England. Finland said he would be extremely busy on Christmas Eve and didn't bother to elaborate.

It seemed pathetic and desperate to turn to family in such a situation, but he was running out of options; he called Ukraine.

"I'm so sorry, brother!" she said tearfully when he asked her the same question. "Canada already asked me to spend Christmas with him...I'm so sorry! It's just that you always keep to yourself over the holidays and I didn't think you wanted to do anything so I said yes to Canada and I can't just break my word but I'm really sorry and maybe if you ask Canada he'll save you some pancakes-"

It was hard to make himself sound cheerful when he told her it was fine and that he hoped she had fun with Canada. He only had one choice left...Russia poured himself another shot, took a deep breath and called Belarus. To his surprise, she didn't answer. Normally she picked up on the first ring when he called. He tried again, but there was still no answer. Concerned for his little sister's well being, he called Ukraine back.

"Didn't you hear, brother?" Ukraine asked when he told her about what had happened. "Belarus agreed to spend the week at Lithuania's house! He was so excited...and the doctors said his broken arm and sprained ankle will heal soon, so it should be nice for them both-"

Russia slammed the phone down, suddenly wanting to cry. This was what he had feared; there really was no one to spend the holidays with. That was the nagging worry that kept him home alone over the holidays in the past, that if he tried to call anyone he would just be rejected. And now to have that fear confirmed...

No, he shouldn't be sad. He knew all along that everyone thought he was poor company. And...and that was fine. He had already accepted that. He didn't really want to do anything on the 24th anyway. He didn't celebrate Christmas until January 7th , so why should December 24th bother him? And he still had vodka, didn't he? Vodka really was good company. It made him warm, and sometimes he could imagine it was as warm as a person...but it wasn't a person, and now he found himself desperately wanting to be with someone. He shouldn't have tried to contact anyone. It just woke up the old needs that he had buried in himself. It was America's fault for stirring this up.

America...he was the only person available to Russia now. How pathetic that all he had was some insincere offer to spend time together. A hundred years ago Russia would have believed that America just honestly wanted to be with him, but not now, not after so much had happened between them. It was a trick, or a game, or a mean joke. He'd probably be annoyed if Russia actually took him up on his offer.

Well, fine. Let him be annoyed.

* * *

It was entirely too easy for Russia to pack his bags, buy a plane ticket and fly over to America's house. Russia found himself wishing it had taken longer, because it wasn't until after he had gotten through both airports, the nine hour flight and the taxi ride to America's house that he realized this was a Bad Idea. It seemed very obvious now, and he wished the revelation had come some time before he found himself standing in America's front yard with a suitcase in hand. What had he been thinking? He hadn't, that was the trouble. America was rubbing off on him.

He could still leave. He could turn around and walk away, get back to the airport, hopefully catch the next flight back to Moscow and pretend that he hadn't just done something so stupid on an emotional whim. Now that he had calmed down from the disappointment from earlier he saw how ridiculous he was being. He had managed by himself for years; being faced with one more year alone wasn't reason to run off to the only person who had expressed any wish to spend time with him, whether or not it was a cruel joke.

America was, at that very moment, standing on a ladder while trying to attach what Russia assumed to be a giant plastic reindeer to his roof (though in Russia's experience, reindeer didn't have such massive eyes...or red noses.) He was thankfully too occupied with his task to notice Russia's arrival, and was singing while he worked. It must have been a Christmas song, but it didn't sound like any Russia had heard before...

"_She'd been drinking too much eggnog,_" America belted out over the clatter of his work. "_And we begged her not to go! But she'd forgot her medication, and so she staggered out the door into the snow~_"

He could still leave before America saw him. Not too late. Could still leave-

"_When we found her Christmas morning at the scene of the attack, there were hoof prints on her forehead and incriminating Claus marks on her back. Oh~, Grandma got run over by a reindeer, coming home from our house_- Hey! When did you get here?"

"Privet," Russia answered, hoping it came out nonchalant. "I just arrived-"

"Wait, hold that thought," America interrupted. "D'ya see that cord on the ground?"

There was an orange electric cord, connected to what appeared to be a hundred other identical orange cords, laying in the brittle brown grass at Russia's feet. "Da."

"Awesome, go plug that in for me! There's an outlet right there on my house- no, over there, look where I'm pointing."

"Why? What will it do?"

"It'll make my yard look awesome, so hurry it up!"

Russia had a feeling it had a better chance of making his yard explode into a fiery inferno than make it 'look awesome.' In fact, considering how many cords he could see now all over the yard, it seemed to be a very likely scenario. And considering how much trouble America had made for him, Russia felt he deserved it. He dragged the cord over to the indicated wall and pushed the plug into the socket.

America's yard burst into light, but not, unfortunately for Russia, into flames. America had managed to put strings of multicolored lights onto almost every imaginable surface, giving the impression that some kind of gigantic, radioactive spider had made a big glowy web all over his house. A large plastic Santa Claus in the middle of the yard was also glowing in a way Russia usually associated with nuclear reactors, and the reindeer on the roof had lit up in a similar fashion. America whooped happily, punched the air and nearly lost his balance on the ladder.

"Oh yeah! Fucking gorgeous. Another job well done, if I do say so myself!"

Russia would have described the yard somewhat differently (the term 'eye-watering' came to mind) but America was quickly scaling down the ladder and a wave of irrational anxiety made his words dry up.

"So what are you doing here, huh? We don't have a meeting scheduled today or anything, do we?"

"Oh no, nothing like that," Russia assured him, pleased that his voice sounded calm and unconcerned to his own ears. "Did you forget? You invited me to your home, and here I am." He gave his suitcase a little shake for emphasis.

"What, you mean..." America's brow furrowed, and Russia's heart sank. "But you didn't sound like you were even interested in spending a few hours at the ballet with me yesterday, and I only said you should come down the day before the show, not a whole week-"

And there it was, the rejection. America didn't want him here.

"Then you would rather I leave. I understand." His voice didn't sound nearly as steady as he would have liked this time. He knew from the start that America didn't really want him around, and now he had proof. At least this simplified things-

"No way!" America exclaimed, grabbing Russia's hand eagerly. "I mean, I definitely didn't expect you so early, but this is perfect! I've got a billion things to do before Christmas and you can help me! And then we can go to the ballet together! It'll be great!"

"Then...then you _do_ want me to stay?" It took Russia a moment to realize that those words came out of his mouth; it sounded much too soft to be his own voice. The warmth of America's hands was making him feel very strange. The cold, heavy feeling in his chest had been replaced with something warm and fluttery. It was wholly unfamiliar to him; was something wrong with his heart? Maybe he needed to see a doctor when he got back home.

"Of course I want you to stay!" America said happily. "I was going to have to do all this stuff by myself, but now I've got you. You can help me with my Christmas tree, and the presents I still need to buy, and some volunteer work I agreed to do...okay, that sounds like a lot, but don't you worry! I'm going to make sure you have the most merry, jolly, magical Christmas _ever_."

Russia couldn't help but think there was something mildly horrifying about the way America said all that with a straight face.

Notes:

Sorry things got a little gloomy there...I promise the next chapter will have less of Russia moping and feeling sorry for himself (because America will be keeping him too busy for that.) Until next time!


	3. Chapter 3

Russia kept his eyes closed for a few moments after he woke up, scrunching up his face against the morning sunlight. Where was he now? He wasn't in his own bed, he knew that much. The room was too warm, and the sheets had a hard, unused feel to them. Oh, right. America's house. That's where he was, the spare bedroom at America's house. Russia shifted under the blankets...and suddenly noticed that something was very off. There was a...a something on top of him. A warm something, lying on his chest. For a single, ridiculous second he entertained the thought of it being America before discarding the theory. The body was much too small to be the younger nation, and Russia felt pretty sure America wouldn't craw on top on him like that. Not now, anyway. There had been times in the past when America had snuck into his bed, usually when he came to visit Russia and would complain about how cold it was to sleep by himself. America had been so much younger back then...they both had, in a way. Sometimes it felt like the last century had aged him more than all the others put together.

It didn't really matter; the point was that the warm thing wasn't America. Russia opened his eyes cautiously...and found himself staring at a black, furry face, inches from his nose. A dog, there was a dog on top of him.

"Nyet," he said groggily. "Go away."

The dog responded to the order by licking his face. Russia was about to sit up and force the invader off when something else caught his attention; voices, faintly muffled by the closed bedroom door, but still recognizable. America was unsurprisingly one of the speakers, and the other, Russia noted with a funny twist of jealousy, was England.

"Can I open it yet?"

"No, you bloody well can't! That's your Christmas present. Why would I let you open it before Christmas?"

"Aw, you're getting all defensive. Are you giving me something personal~?"

"Spare me." The response was dry and uninterested, but Russia fumed silently all the same. Why did England have to be here? No, that wasn't fair to be angry. England had just as much right as (and maybe more than) Russia to be there, but still..._Russia did not want him to be there. _It was childish and silly; America hadn't offered him anything except a place to stay and some company for a few days, but Russia was in no mood to share any of that, especially not with England. The dog on his chest seemed to sense his annoyance and scooted back a few inches.

"....want to explain what's going on?" England was saying when Russia tuned back in to the conversation.

"About what?"

"Don't play games. There's a suitcase in the hallway. And don't bother trying to tell me it's yours; the luggage tag is written in Cyrillic and there's a bottle of Smirnoff sticking out the top."

"...yeah, so?"

"So what is he doing here? He's not...giving you any trouble, is he?"

"What do you mean by trouble? We're not startin' the Cold War back up again, if that's what you're asking."

"Obviously not, I just meant...well, the word on the grape vine is that he's been calling just about everyone, looking for someone to spend December 24th with. He even asked me, if you can believe it. Everyone turned him down, far as I know, but it's still a bit dodgy, isn't it? Either he's hit rock bottom or he's up to something."

Russia couldn't hear the next few seconds of the conversation over a rush of blood in his ears. How dare England tell America all that! If America hadn't considered Russia a pity case before, he certainly would now. England was going to ruin everything! Damn that England. See if he's still talking like that about Russia once all his teeth are smashed out-

"...don't see why it's got to be either," America said flatly, pulling Russia out of his violent daydream. "Maybe he just wanted to hang out with somebody on Christmas Eve. Why's that weird?"

"America, he called at least half the U.N. It sounds pretty suspicious, or desperate."

"So what?"

"Did he call you too? Is that why he's-"

"Actually, no. I _invited_ him here."

"Bloody hell, what'd you do that for?"

"Dammit, is it that hard to imagine that maybe I just wanted to spend some time with him for old times sake? I mean, we were pals way back when-"

"I hope you aren't so naive as to think that you can just pretend the entire Cold War didn't happen."

"I'm _not_, jeez! I'm just saying, we got along real good before, and it...it'd be kinda nice if we could be like that again. Cold War's been over for a while, why shouldn't we try to be friends now? And...hey, c'mere, I'll tell you something else..."

America lowered his voice too much for Russia to hear anything but faint mumbling.

"Really?" England's voice was slightly incredulous.

"Yeah, and..." More mumbling.

"_Really. _I had suspected that was the case, but still-"

"Don't go spreading it around, okay?"

"Come now, I've got more tact than that. I don't understand _why _you feel that way but your secret is safe with m-...oh, look...above you."

"Where? Oh...heh, forgot I hung mistletoe there."

Jealousy was turning itself into tight little knots in Russia's stomach again.

"Well, er....you know it's terrible luck to ignore this sort of thing-"

"Didn't you used to do creepy druid stuff with mistletoe?"

"Ages ago, certainly. Not a plant to be taken lightly, mistletoe."

"Huh...so I guess we should..."

"Just to avoid any bad luck for the new year, of course-"

"Yeah, okay. Well..."

There was a few beats of silence, and Russia's imagination filled in the gaps all too well. The quiet laugh from England he heard through the door made it even worse.

"You _git_."

"What? Wasn't that good enough?"

"It'll do. But pay more attention to that sort of thing in the future, hm? The next person might not let you off so easily."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Sod off."

"Are you heading out now?"

"I better, there's a mountain of work back at home for me. Just wanted to drop off your present and wish you merry Christmas."

"Heh, merry Christmas to you too, England." Russia hated how warm America's voice sounded when he said that. _Hated it_.

"And you're not to open that present until Christmas day!"

"I hear you, I hear you..."

There were footsteps and doors opening and closing, and Russia sank a few inches deeper under the blankets when he hear the footsteps draw near his own door. The dog seemed more eager to see America than Russia, and started to wag his tail furiously.

"Morning, sunshine!" America sang as he opened the door, not bothering to knock. "Rise and sh-...Get down, Bo! You know aren't allowed on the bed! Bad dog! How'd you get in here anyway..."

The dog obediently leap down from the bed and trotted over to America, eagerly sniffing the younger country's hands.

"I'll get you your breakfast later, buddy," America assured him, scratching his ears before turning back to Russia with a sheepish smile. "Sorry about Bo."

"I did not know you had a dog," Russia said, still buried up to his nose with blankets and in no hurry to come out.

"Oh, he's not mine. I'm dog-sitting for my boss. The family's all busy right now and my house has been kinda empty 'cause Tony's on vacation right now, so I volunteered to watch him. He's usually pretty good, though. Sorry about him jumping on you." America frowned suddenly, and grabbed a fistful of blanket, tugging it down enough to see Russia's face. "What are you looking so murderous for this early in the morning? The dog didn't bother you that much, did he?"

"I am not a morning person."

"Well hurry up and take a shower, okay? That'll perk you up. We've got a lot of stuff to do today, come on."

The scalding hot shower _did_ improve Russia's mood at little, at least to the point that he had stopped considering homicide and had settled down into flat disappointment and envy. This was silly; what was he so upset about? When he stopped to think, he wasn't even that sure _what_ he wanted or expected from America. After all their rocky history, even casual friendship was almost too much to ask for. He _knew_ that, so it was silly to be bothered by the thought of America being happy with England, smiling with England, kissing England-

That last thought made his fist tighten around the bar of soap in his hand, causing it to slip forcefully from his fingers and land on the shower floor with a surprisingly loud _thud_.

"You okay in there?" America called from outside.

"Fine!" Russia called back. "I just slipped."

America was sitting at the kitchen table, petting that annoying dog, by the time Russia had finished his shower and dressed.

"Hey!" America said cheerfully, not bothering to look up. "Are you hungry? Want some breakfast?"

"Nyet. I don't have much appetite this morning."

"Yeah? Suit yourself." America stood and stretched, turning a brilliant smile to Russia who looked away. "Anyway, go grab a coat. We're gonna go buy a Christmas tree!"

------------

America was in an overwhelmingly good mood all the way over to the Christmas tree farm, and his enthusiasm only increased once they arrived.

"Hey, come over here!" America called, waving Russia over to the latest tree. "What do you think about this one?"

"It looks more or less like all the other trees."

"Does not! This one's a little thinner and taller than the last we one looked at...hey, can you touch the top of it?"

"I might."

"Well go ahead and try!"

Russia sighed heavily, wondering if there was a point to all this, and reached for the highest branch. His fingers just barely fell short.

"Try standing on your toes!" America prompted.

"Why does it matter if I can touch it or not?"

"_Because_. If you can reach the top, then I won't have to stand on a chair this year to put the star on top."

"And?"

"I hate having to drag a chair out just to stick the star up! It's a pain, and I'm always worried I'm going to slip and knock the whole damn tree over. So this makes everything easier."

"Ah. So this is all about you being too lazy to stand on a chair."

"I'm _practical_, man. Practical. Why waste time on a chair if I've got a tall buddy to help out?"

"But you waste time on so many things already," Russia insisted, ignoring the 'buddy' comment.

"Shut up. Why are you such a grump today? Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?"

"Something like that, da," Russia muttered, and finally gave in and stood on his toes, managing to grab the highest branch now.

"Perfect!" America beamed, slapping Russia on the back. "We'll buy this one. It's juuuust big enough and...." The younger country trailed off, his attention caught by another tree. Russia turned to see which one he was looking at, expecting something impressive. Instead, there was a tiny, scruffy little tree, more like a few branches sticking out of the ground than a real tree.

"Oh, dude! Look at that!" America gushed happily, circling the pathetic excuse for a tree. "It's a genuine Charlie Brown Christmas tree! We gotta buy this one too. I bet it's cheap since it's so tiny."

"Do you enjoy wasting money as well as time?" Russia asked curiously.

"It's not a waste! This kind of thing has...y'know, cultural significance to me."

"Then what do you plan to do with it?"

"I dunno, I'll stick it somewhere. Oh, we can put it in your room! That's perfect, you can have your own tree that way. Wait here, I'll get someone to cut 'em down for us!"

America ran off too quickly for Russia to protest any further, and returned just as quickly with a man with a saw. The trees were cut and paid for, and the two made their way back to America's house. America insisted on carrying the larger tree by himself ("I used to pick up buffaloes when I was a kid. I can handle a tree!") and left Russia to carry the tiny sapling.

"I still don't see why you like the little tree so much," Russia commented as they walked.

"It's all nostalgia, man. Haven't you ever seen _A Charlie Brown Christmas_?"

"What's a Charlie Brown?"

"Oh god, you're so deprived. I'm sure I've got it on DVD somewhere. I'll play it for you later. But first, decorations!"

America was quite content to babble about decorating trees for the rest of the walk home, and Russia was quite content to tune him out. He had forgotten how exhausting America could be, even in small doses. But in spite of that, Russia was surprised to find that he was enjoying himself. The tension in his chest that England's earlier visit had caused was dissipating into almost nothing, and he even caught himself smiling unintentionally a few times.

While transporting the trees had been easy, the rest of the job wasn't. The larger tree was too wide to fit through the door, and it took a good deal of pulling and shoving from both countries to get it inside. It was a small blessing that America had the foresight to leave the tree stand in the living room where he intended to set up the tree, but then he promptly left Russia to struggle with that task while he went to the basement to drag out boxes of ornaments. To Russia's credit, the tree in its stand and only slightly crooked by the time America returned. The smaller tree could wait until later.

"Not bad!" America said as he sat down the oversized box he had excavated from the basement. "Do you usually have a tree at your house?"

"I haven't for years," Russia admitted, helping America peel the layers of tape off the box.

"Why not? It's fun!"

"But not much fun when there is no one to help decorate, da?"

America looked up from the box and Russia wished he hadn't said anything; the look America gave him was painfully pitying. Or was it empathy in the younger country's eyes?

"Well, you've got me to help you decorate this year," America said firmly. "Or maybe it's the other way around. Whatever. Oh man, look at this!" America had gotten the box open and was holding up a cheap looking wooden angel. "Virginia made this for me when she was little. Oh, and this bell is from Pennsylvania...and California gave me this glass star..." He sighed, beaming with parental pride, before passing the angel to Russia. "Here, hang this one up somewhere."

Now Russia could understand why America wanted a big tree; he had fifty different ornaments to hang up, in addition to tinsel, garland and a star at the top.

About halfway through, America stopped and rubbed the back of his neck restlessly. "Ugh, I'm starved! Wanna take a break?"

"Not hungry," Russia answered as he tried to find a good place for a little snowman ornament from Alaska.

"You already skipped breakfast, man!" America said stubbornly, and grabbed Russia's arm, apparently intending to drag him into the kitchen if necessary. "You gotta eat something or you'll waste away!"

"I am in no danger of wasting away," Russia insisted as he hung the snowman just a second before America actually _did_ start dragging him to the kitchen by the arm.

"It's for your own good, pal. You'll feel better after- _ow!_ Why'd you kick me!?"

"It made you stop, da?" Russia said lightly, pulling his arm back while America rubbed his shin. "And I did not kick very hard."

"My ass you didn't! There's going to be one hell of a bruise tomorrow-...what are you doing now?"

"Just looking," Russia said as he squatted down and tugged America's pant leg up over the wounded shin. "See, no bruise. Such a fuss for nothing."

"There'll be a big black and blue one tomorrow!"

Russia looked up at America to answer, and stopped when he saw something else overhead.

"What're you looking at?" America grumbled, tipping his head back to see what Russia was looking at. The annoyance melted off his face and was replaced with a more nervous expression. "Oh, that again."

"Da, mistletoe." Russia wondered if his expression was as flustered as America's. He hoped not.

"S-so what? You want a kiss, big guy?"

"D-da." Damn that little stutter, damn it. "England said it was bad luck not to, da?"

"Were you listening to us this morning?" America scowled, his face turning a few shades redder. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to eavesdrop?"

"I don't have a mother, America. None of us do."

"Figure of speech, asshole. So what'd you hear?"

"Only that mistletoe is not to be taken lightly. I think..." He took a tiny breath to brace himself. "I think I should get a kiss like England did. That's fair, da?"

"What? You mean you want the same kind of kiss he got?" America's eyebrows shot up and were threatening to disappear behind his bangs.

"Da, the same."

"You sure? That's really what you want?"

America's house suddenly felt much too warm. Russia managed a nod.

"Okay..." America ran a hand through his hair restlessly. "Okay, you asked for it. Close your eyes."

Russia did as he was told and held his breath. 'It doesn't mean anything,' he tried to convince himself. 'Just a silly tradition. Doesn't mean anything for either of us...' And then he felt America put a hand on his shoulder and rational thought screeched to a halt. He could feel the warmth of the younger country's body, and breath against his skin...and then America gave him a quick peck on the nose and it was over. His eyes flicked open again and America was grinning up at him.

"There you go, buddy. Just what you asked for."

"That is how you kissed England?" Russia asked, after he found his tongue again.

"Yup, that was it. What, did you think we were french kissing this morning? You're so weird!"

He disappeared into the kitchen with a laugh, and left Russia still standing under the mistletoe, trying to decide if he was relieved or disappointed.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Loooong chapter, woo boy. Thanks for supporting me this far, guys! Hope you enjoy the next part!

When Russia thought back, it was slightly amazing how things went from good to bad so fast. The evening after he and America bought the Christmas trees had been...nice. And not 'nice' in the bland, insincere sort of way, but 'nice' in a soft, pleasant sense. America had insisted that they watch that 'Charlie Brown' thing he liked so much, so they did just that, sitting side by side on America's overstuffed couch. Russia had a hard time seeing what was so good about that round headed boy and his misshapen dog, but America was terribly warm next to him, and it just wasn't worth it to voice his complaints. After a little while he reclined against America, and waited for the younger country to say something or tense up, any sign that he was uncomfortable with Russia leaning on him. When he didn't, Russia let himself relax. He had nearly dozed off when America poked him in the ribs.

"Hey, wake up! This is the part about the tree."

Russia blinked at the bright screen of America's TV, trying to catch up with the plot.

"Why does the little girl want a pink aluminum tree? That sounds ugly."

"I dunno, 'cause she's Lucy."

"...Does being Lucy mean she has to be unpleasant and make life harder for the round headed boy?"

"More or less, yeah."

They watched in silence until the end, America smiling contently in the glow of nostalgia and Russia frowning thoughtfully at the screen.

"So it is a critique of commercialism and secularism, da?" he asked after the show ended and America turned off the TV.

"It's too late at night to be using words that are more than ten letters long, man," America said around a yawn. "Don't think about it too hard. It's about remembering the meaning of Christmas."

"And the meaning of Christmas is religion?"

"If you want. Or you can just say it's about friends and family and trying to be nice to people. Whatever works for you. Okay, bedtime. We gotta get up early tomorrow. We've got work to do at the mall."

If Russia hadn't been so comfortable and warm he might have thought to ask more about the work America mentioned, and if America actually explained that he had planned for them, Russia could have protested. But he _was_ too warm and comfortable and strangely at peace to really care what was going to happen the next day, and he went back to the guest bedroom where America had set up the tiny tree for him with a single red ornament. He didn't even mind when Bo jumped in bed with him again half way through the night, and didn't give what America had said another thought until America woke him up the next day and dragged him, still half asleep, to the mall.

"You want some coffee?" America asked as they made their way through the still fairly empty mall. "We gotta be awake to work hard today!"

"It occurs to me that you have not told me what kind of work we will be doing yet, America."

"I didn't tell you yet?" America stopped and frowned. He had lead them to an employees only dressing room, and pulled two folded stacks of clothes out of a locker, passing one to Russia. "Here, put this on. It's the biggest they've got, so cross your fingers for it to fit."

Russia pawed through the contents of the stack. There was a lot of green. There was a green vest. There were green tights. There was a pointed green hat with a bell on the end.

"Ya see, I've been volunteering here for the past few years as a mall Santa," America explained as he disappeared behind a dressing curtain with his outfit tucked under his arm. "And I can't just say no all of a sudden, 'cause they have a real hard time finding replacements on short notice. Which I think is crazy. I mean, this is the funnest job _ever_, but whatever, different strokes for different folks. Anyway, since you're around, I figured you could help me this year."

"_Help you_," Russia echoed flatly. He didn't like the sound of that, not at all. He liked the sound of green tights even less.

"Yeah, you can be my helper elf!" America said happily. "It's easy. I'm doing the hard work, talking to the kids and all, and you just smile and give 'em a candy cane when we're done. That's it! Pretty sweet gig, huh?" America emerged from behind the curtain fully decked out in his Santa costume, complete with a scruffy fake beard. "How do I look?"

Russia looked America over slowly, from the black boots to the fuzzy red and white hat. "Your beard is crooked. And your coat is very baggy."

"Aw hell," America grumbled, fumbling with the beard. "I hate this thing, it's all itchy. And I can't do much about the coat. Usually I stuff a pillow in there, since Santa's supposed to be fat, y'know. But last year this kid called me out on it, so this year I'm gonna go without and just tell the kids Santa's on a diet. Okay, your turn!"

"_Nyet_."

"Come on~!"

"I refuse to wear tights."

"What, you wanna go out there in just your undies? That's not gonna fly, there are little kids running around-"

"I do not want to go out there at all."

"Why not? I know the clothes look kinda silly, but it's really not that bad once you get into the swing of things. And you're the elf. No one pays much attention to the elf, so it's not like people are gonna point and laugh at you or anything."

"Then you could do without me, da?"

"But..." America's shoulders slumped a little in disappointment, and Russia felt his conviction waver. "But I thought this would be a fun thing for us to do together..."

"...I will try on the clothes, da?" Russia finally allowed. "I will not do it if they do not fit. But I will try them on."

"And you'll do it if they fit?" America asked, perking up again. "Promise?"

"...Da, promise," Russia grumbled sourly, snatching the clothes back up again and taking America's place behind the curtain. The tights were every bit as unpleasant as he expected them to be, but through some kind of miracle (or curse, depending on one's point of view) he managed to get them on. The vest was only just large enough for him to fasten the buttons on the front, and the curled green shoes pinched his toes terribly. The only thing that did fit was the green hat, but considering it jingled with every movement, that wasn't much comfort.

"It fits!" America announced happily when Russia reluctantly came out again.

"I believe we have a different definition of 'fits,' America."

"Naw, you squeezed yourself into it without anything tearing. That's good enough!"

"The vest might tear if I move too suddenly."

"So don't move around a lot, problem solved. Come on, you _promised_ you'd be my elf if the clothes fit. Don't back out on me now, man."

Had it been nearly anyone else, Russia would have had no problem breaking that stupid promise and walking out without so much as a glance back. But it wasn't anyone else. It was America, with his crooked fake beard and his fuzzy red hat and his ridiculously brilliant smile. Damn that smile. Russia couldn't say no to it. That smile was the reason he ultimately found himself standing next to America in the middle of a plastic, obnoxiously multicolored display that sported an equally obnoxious multicolored sign reading: 'Meet Santa, Today from 10:30-3:00!"

"Psst! Russia!" America hissed, as the first children started to arrive. "You've gotta smile! The kids expect you to be all jolly and stuff."

Russia smiled. Rather, he showed his teeth.

"No, no, no!" America whispered frantically. "That's an awful smile! You'll scare the piss out of the kids."

"Hopefully while they're sitting on your lap," Russia whispered back darkly.

"You're being a serious Grinch, buddy. Come on, give me a real smile. Close your eyes and think about happy things."

Russia sighed huffily and shut his eyes. Fine, happy things. Sunflowers. Vodka. Cheburashka. Springtime. Pierogies. Sitting next to America on the couch, close enough to touch...

"There, you've got it! That's perfect!" America said encouragingly, and Russia was almost sorry to open his eyes again. "Just keep smiling like that and you'll be fine. Oh, first kid. Ho ho ho! And what's your name, little girl?"

America was right on at least one point; no one paid very much attention to the elf so long as there was a Santa to distract them. The first girl to crawl up in America's lap only had eyes for him, who she regarded with equal parts awe and fear.

"Jessica?" America repeated in a deeper voice after the girl had whispered her answer to him. "That's a beautiful name! And what do you want for Christmas, Jessica? A little louder, sweetheart, Santa's ears aren't what they used to be. A Barbie doll? Well, I'll see what I can do! Merry Christmas, ho ho ho!"

America clearly had experience in this field, and the exchange went without a hitch until the little girl hopped back down and Russia, still trying his damnedest to smile in a not-terrifying fashion, attempted to offer her a candy cane. Jessica stared at the candy. Then she just stared at Russia. He stared back.

"Santa, your elf is too tall," Jessica said loudly, still staring at Russia like she expected him to attack at any given moment.

"Am I?" Russia asked in what he hoped was a child friendly voice. Apparently it wasn't, because Jessica took two quick steps back.

"He's a mutant elf, Jessica," America said hastily, recovering from the hiccup in procedure magnificently. "He got exposed to some radioactive waste when he was a little elf. It was very sad. Don't make fun of him, he's sensitive about it."

The Word of Santa seemed to carry more weight than anything Russia could have done or said, and the girl finally took her candy cane, grabbing it delicately with two fingers, before retreating to her waiting mother.

"Not too bad, huh?" America whispered before the next child arrived.

"Aside from you telling a small child that I am a mutant elf, da."

"Just roll with it, man. And keep smiling like I told you. Think happy thoughts!"

Happy thoughts, right. Russia tried to put his mind back to the previous night, back to being warm and comfortable while America tried to explain the significance of Charlie Brown, and suddenly found it much easier to smile at the hoards of children. The rest of the job might have gone smoothly, if children didn't have the tendency to question everything.

"Your elf talks funny," a young boy said after asking America for a BB gun (to which America responded, "You'll shoot your eye out, kid. Merry Christmas, ho ho ho!")

"That's 'cause he's not from around here, Ralphie."

"Isn't he from the North Pole?"

"No, he...uh...he's a special elf from Russia. You know where that is?"

"...Far away?"

"Exactly right! Good boy. Give this kid a candy cane for being smart, Mr. Elf."

It would have been fine if things had stopped there. They didn't.

"Santa, you're too skinny!" another little girl declared before America even had a chance to ask her what she wanted.

"Santa's on a diet, little girl. Just low-fat cookies and skim milk for me, ho ho ho."

"But Santa's supposed to be fat," she insisted. "Your elf's fatter than you are!"

_Crack_. The candy cane in Russia's hand shattered ominously.

"Aw, that's not a very nice thing to say, sweetheart!" America said, ignoring Russia completely.

"But it's true! He's got a belly and everything."

"W-well, so what? Don't you think the pudginess makes him kind of cute? Um, ho ho ho."

Russia picked up another candy cane, held it in front of America's face and neatly snapped it in half. "That was your neck," he said sweetly.

"No, Mr. Elf," America said with a hint of warning in his voice. "That was a candy cane."

"Ah, I am sorry, I misspoke. That is what I _want_ to do to your neck."

"What, 'cause I said your fat makes you cute? That's a compliment, you moron."

"_I am big-boned._"

"And I'm the Queen of England. Ha, he'd have a fit if I was-"

"I think I am tired of being your elf now," Russia said flatly, and quickly turned on his heel and walked away, heading back to the dressing rooms. America was teasing him, calling him cute. That was what annoyed him, much more than being called fat. Russia knew perfectly well that he was about as far from cute as one could get.

"Whoa whoa whoa!" America shouted behind him. "Where are you going? Hey, R-...uh, Mr. Elf! Oh shoot. Um, sorry kids, we're gonna take a half hour lunch break, I need to talk to my elf..."

The head-start Russia had over America really only gave him enough time to get back to the dressing room and peel off those awful tights before America came bursting in. Russia hastily pulled his normal pants back on, just in case America decided to pull back the curtain he was charging behind.

"Okay, what was that about?" America asked, thankfully staying on his side of the curtain. "We need to have a serious talk, man, 'cause that little temper tantrum you just threw was _not cool_."

"Can it wait?" Russia snapped as he tugged off the vest, tearing a button off along the way.

"Just until you're done in there, alright?" America allowed.

Russia slowly pulled his shirt back on, stalling for time as much as he could before reluctantly emerging from behind the curtain. America was frowning at him, half annoyance and half concern. He had tugged off the fake beard, but hadn't bothered to take off any more of his costume.

"So what's up, huh?"

"Nothing is up. I got tired of dealing with children."

"Are you seriously this upset because a little girl called you fat?"

"Nyet," Russia snapped, and pushed past America as he walked out of the dressing room. America followed, still in his Santa costume sans the beard, but didn't say anything for a while. Russia wasn't entirely sure where he was headed; he had been too tired that morning to remember the way they came in, but with any luck he'd find the way back out again, and if nothing else, he could wait in the car until America was done playing Santa.

"Alright, stop," America said after a few minutes of walking, tugging on Russia's elbow. "You've had enough time to cool down and you owe me an answer now."

"I already told you, da? I was tired."

"Bullshit, you don't stomp off like that because you're tired. What's eating you, huh?"

Russia paused, and finally spat out, "I did not appreciate you saying that I am cute."

"God, that's why you've got your panties in a bunch? Did I insult your masculinity or something? God _damn_-"

"Nyet. I just do not like being lied to."

"When did I ever lie to you?"

"_When you said I was cute_," Russia hissed. He was losing patience with this game America was playing. Why did everything America did and said have to be so insincere?

"That wasn't a lie," America said plainly, causing Russia to temporarily lose his steam.

"O-of course it is-"

"No, it's _not_. Hate to break it to you, darling, but you _are_ pretty cute in your own funny way. At least I think so. It's kind of an 'in the eye of the beholder' sort of thing, but-"

"I told you to stop lying. _I am starting to get angry._"

"What, you aren't angry yet? You're cute. I'm gonna keep saying it. You're cute! You're adorable!" America laughed, dodging back when Russia took a threatening step forward. "What's the deal? You've been a huge grouch ever since I asked you to the ballet. Does the Christmas season make you grumpy? You're such a Grinch!"

"Nyet, I am just very tired of you teasing me like I-"

"Naw, you _are_ a Grinch," America continued. A little grin was spreading across his face. "You hate Christmas, the whole Christmas season. Now please don't ask why, no one quite knows the reason!"

Russia's eyes narrowed. Now America was _definitely _teasing him.

"It could be, perhaps, that your shoes are too tight," America continued, and skipped closer to knock his fist lightly against Russia's head. "Or it could be your head isn't screwed on just right!" Regrettably, the younger country pulled his hand back before Russia could grab him and snap his wrist like a twig. Suddenly he stepped closer again, uncomfortably close, and Russia had a difficult time convincing himself that it was just anger that turned his face red.

"But I think the most likely reason of all," America said softly, grinning up at Russia as he tapped two fingers hard against Russia's chest on every word, "could be that your heart is two sizes too small!"

Something jolted in Russia's chest, almost like the feeling of a heart skipping a beat...only it didn't resume it's usual beating. There was a tickle of something falling down his chest and out the bottom of this shirt, and then a damp splat as the something landed on the ground between his shoes. There was no need to look down; the open mouthed horror on America's face said it all. His heart had fallen out. Again.

"Y-Y-Y-Your..." America tried, still gawking at the heart on the floor. "Your...your..._holy shit_."

The look on the younger country's face would have been funny if the situation hadn't been so mortifying. Having his heart fall out was just about the most embarrassing thing that could happen in the middle of a crowded mall. People always made such a fuss about unexplainable human organs showing up and getting blood all over the nice, clean floor.

There was probably a good, neat way to deal with this little problem without attracting any unwanted attention (he was lucky enough that no one else had noticed the heart yet), but for the life of him Russia couldn't think of how. He could feel his heart, still beating even as it lay on the hard ground, and that made it hard to focus. Fortunately, America recovered from the shock and took action. In almost one fluid movement he snatched the heart up, grabbed Russia's arm and drug the still dumbstruck country into the nearby men's room. America let go of Russia's arm long enough to make sure all the stalls were empty (they thankfully were) before turning back with a mildly hysterical glint in his eye.

"Okay. Okay, we-we're alone here. Okay. Uh. So, okay, you....um, your heart fell out."

"Da, it did." America's warm hands felt much different against his heart than the floor. The initial surprise of losing his heart had worn off, but this new sensation kept his head spinning.

"Uh..." America paused, and held the heart up closer to his face. "Well, I think it got a little dirty from the floor. I'll just...um, wash it off for you."

Russia wasn't entirely sure what America meant by 'wash it off,' until the younger country held his heart in the sink and turned on the faucet, dousing the heart in icy water. Russia gave a yelp of surprise and wrenched the faucet off.

"_Stop that_," he snarled.

"What? Why? I thought you were kind of immune to cold stuff-"

"_That does not mean I enjoy soaking my heart in ice water._"

America blinked slowly, digesting this new piece of information. "So your heart's kinda sensitive, huh? Um, am I holding it too tightly? I don't want to hurt it, but I'm not used to dealing with-"

He stopped mid sentence, and tipped his head as though listening to something. And then Russia heard it too: footsteps outside the door.

"Shit," America hissed, and dashed inside the nearest stall, closely followed by Russia. The heart had left a bloody trail down his shirt when it fell out, and he really didn't want to answer any questions about that, or, if the invader got a look at what was behind the stained shirt, about the gaping hole in his chest. Going into the same stall was perhaps not the best idea; there really wasn't enough room for two men to stand comfortably, but the restroom door opened almost as soon as the stall door swung shut, and there was no time to find a better hiding place. Russia had no choice but to take a deep breath through his nose and try to ignore the fact that America was only a few inches away, much too close.

'Sorry,' America mouthed silently to him. Russia shook his head dismissively and took another calming breath, waiting for the invader to leave. America had started rubbing his thumb across the heart, a light, almost absent minded touch. A shiver ran down Russia's spine, and he grabbed America's wrist to stop him.

'Sorry,' America mouthed again, with a tiny sheepish smile. 'Did that hurt?' Again Russia shook his head. It was true; it hadn't hurt at all. It was just unfamiliar. He could deal with pain just fine, but he wasn't used to having his heart held and touched so gently...

After a small eternity the invader left again, and America heaved a sigh of relief.

"I thought he'd never leave! Okay, we're alone again, so...well, how do we, um...put your heart back?"

"You just...put it back," Russia tried to explain awkwardly, and pulled his shirt up to show the hole were the heart had been. "It just goes back where it came from."

"That's it? So I should just, um, stick it in you? Whoa, it just started beating faster! Is that bad? Has it been out too long? Uh, maybe we should put it back now-"

"Now would be good, da," Russia said quickly, trying to will his heart to slow down from a distance.

"Okay," America said slowly. "Just tell me if I'm pushing too hard or if it hurts or anything." He hesitated, looking down at the pulsing heart again, before carefully easing it back into the hole.

"You might want to look away," Russia warned. "This part is a little...gross." He could feel his body starting to take the heart back in already, skin mending itself across the gap.

"Naw, it's fine," America said, watching the process with interest. He wasn't bothered or scared at all now, Russia noticed with some relief. It would be awful for America to be afraid of him.

Even after his heart had settling back in place America's hand was still resting lightly against Russia's chest, still terribly warm and distracting. That was the thing about America; he was always warm. He made everything around him warm, even someone as cold as Russia. It was that warmth that always pulled Russia back to him. It was that warmth that made Russia love him.

Oh no. He shouldn't have thought that. Once you gave that feeling a name, you couldn't ever take it back again. You couldn't hide from it once it had a name. It had become something solid now, something real.

"You okay?" America asked, brow wrinkled with worry. "Your face is red, and I mean _bright_ red. Is this a side effect to having your heart out or something? Do you need me to take you to a doctor? Not that this is the best time to go to a doctor at my place, but-"

"Nyet." Russia's voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat, trying again. "N-nyet, it...I am fine."

"I'm not convinced. You look all wobbly. Are you sure your heart's okay?"

"D-da."

"Well, maybe we should just go home and let you rest for a while, okay?"

"But what about your...your job here?"

"Come on, man! You're more important than my Santa gig. I'll just tell them there was an emergency. Let's take you home. Oh wait, you should wear my Santa coat until we get to the dressing room. You've got blood all over your shirt. We'll find something else for you to cover up with back there, okay?"

The coat was still warm from America's body, and Russia's fingers stumbled over the buttons until America brushed his hands away and did the buttons up himself. America's hand closed over Russia's (_warm, so warm_) and he pulled the older country along with him, back outside.

He couldn't blame the heat in his face on the too-heavy coat, or the tremor in his hands on the cold water from earlier. He had given the feeling a name, and he couldn't hide from it anymore. He was in love, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

AN: Since there's been a little confusion about the whole heart thing, I thought I'd just update to say that Russia's heart popping out a random intervals is actually part of the Hetalia canon. There's a strip about it, voila! - (take out the spaces and parentheses, of course)

http://community.(livejournal . com)/hetalia /4193035. html

And no, I don't know why this happens either. Apparently Russia's anatomy is just as weird as the rest of him.


	5. Chapter 5

It was probably for the best that America was convinced Russia needed quiet and bed rest for the remainder of the day; he left Russia alone in the guest bedroom until nightfall, only knocking on the door from time to time to offer food. It was for the best. He needed time to get his thoughts in order before he was ready to face America again.

Somehow it was easier to know what he was feeling. He couldn't avoid it, but at least he could work around it and control it. He didn't have to let it rule over him and make him so...so stupid, like he had been the past few days. He could stuff the feeling away, smother it. It wouldn't be very difficult; he had done it for centuries. He had gotten used to gulping the feeling down when America would throw an arm around his shoulders or grab his hand or crawl into bed with him on a cold night because it was all just pointless little things that meant nothing coming from America.

The feeling was entirely one-sided and always had been, that was the important thing to remember. It wasn't worth the risk to try and push things any further than friendship. He _had_ tried, once, when he let himself wonder if maybe, just maybe America felt something more too. It was so long ago, that one night in the nineteenth century when America broke his window throwing rocks...and even _that_ meant nothing. America wouldn't see the act of throwing rocks at someone's window in the middle of the night as the sort of thing lovers would do; he just wanted to get Russia's attention and that was the fastest way to do it. And it didn't mean anything when America finally got him outside and pulled him by the hand to a clearing where the meteor shower was easier to see. He just wanted Russia to get there faster. Of course he knew all that _now_, but at the time he let himself think all the little touches and gestures added up to...to _something._

He might have just pushed the feeling, the _want_ down and away again, like he had for quite some time already, but they started talking about stars, long before either of them dreamed they could actually get close enough to touch the glowing lights in the sky...and America had said something ridiculous about gathering up all the stars together and putting them in a jar like fireflies. And he'd give the jar to Russia, he said, because it'd be like a lantern or something, wouldn't that be handy? Better than that silly beaver fur hat he gave Russia last year for his birthday, ha ha ha.

It was nonsense talk, but America was so _close_ right then, and the stars were reflecting off his brand new glasses and before Russia stopped to think better of it, he leaned over and kissed him. America immediately froze up, went all stiff and rigid, and that told Russia all he needed to know. America didn't want this, didn't want _him_. Russia pulled back just as fast and made something up about that being the fastest way to shut up that nonsense, hoping America would think the kiss was just another 'crazy European thing,' the same way he seemed to write off everything odd anyone from Europe did as a 'crazy European thing.' He was so careful after that, careful to not touch America at all or even look him directly in the eye until it was time for the younger country to leave and go back home to the other side of the world. And it worked, because the next time they met was easy and friendly again. America had probably completely forgotten about what happened, and that was how things had to be.

He had to stop things there. He had too, or he'd ruin the friendship they were slowly repairing. He had made this mistake before, pushing just a little too far, and then the other person would get uncomfortable and scared...and then they'd go away unless Russia _forced_ them to stay with him. And they'd stay a while, against their will, but once they got away they ran from him twice as fast...

He couldn't let it end up like that with America. His friendship was better than nothing. Even the mutual hate during the Cold War was better than nothing (at least hate burned, at least it was warm.) But if he pushed too hard like this, he really would end up with nothing. If America had any idea how Russia actually felt, everything would turn awkward and uncomfortable, just like it always did whenever he let someone know he loved them. They couldn't even be friends any more after that. At best, they could be acquaintances, distant and coolly polite because their bosses didn't want them fighting any more.

The easiest thing was to forget. He made himself forget ever loving America during the Cold War, and there was nothing to remind him of it until it was all over. It started slowly coming back after that, but he had forgotten, and he didn't have a name for what happened to him whenever America tried to patch things up between them, or smiled, or was just simply there in his life again. But he remembered now. It had a name now.

There was knock at the door.

"Hey big guy!" America yelled through the closed door. "Feeling any better? I made hot chocolate, you want any?"

Russia hesitated. He had refused all of America's other offers of food, and the younger country would think something was seriously wrong if he didn't accept something sooner or later. The new knowledge didn't really keep his heart from speeding up at all, but at least now he could stop and push his face into his usual blank smile.

"Can I put vodka in it?" he called back as he sat up in bed.

"Yeah, if you want. So can I come in?"

"Da."

There was some scuffling outside the door before America kicked the door open, a steaming mug in either hand. He passed one to Russia and turned to grab a spare chair for himself. Russia sniffed at the contents of the mug before tasting it cautiously. It tasted like chalk. He grabbed the almost empty bottle of Smirnoff from the bedside table and poured a generous amount into the mug. Now it tasted like chalk with vodka. Much better.

"So how are you doing?" America asked as he dragged a chair over to the bed and took a seat, sipping his own hot chocolate-chalk. "Is your heart better now?"

"Da, it is fine now. A little rest was all I needed," Russia lied, taking another gulp of his drink.

"Oh good! Believe it or not, I was actually pretty worried about you. Are you sure you're alright? I mean, if _my_ heart fell out, I think I'd be kind of...dead."

"I am almost certain I am not dead, America."

"Only almost?" America laughed. "So does that kind of thing happen a lot to you? Can't say I've ever seen your heart pop out, and I've known you for a while."

"I-it just happens sometimes. No rhyme or reason, I believe that is the expression."

"So you're really okay now? Like, would you be alright if I left you alone for a couple hours? I've got some Christmas shopping to do tomorrow, so can you just hang around by yourself for a while?"

"Are you going to hire a babysitter for me if I say no?" Russia asked with a quirked eyebrow before draining the rest of his mug.

"Yup," America grinned, "but she'll make you take a nap and won't let you have any vodka, so I don't think you'd like that much."

"Then I will be fine on my own, da."

"Good deal. Well, I'm gonna turn in for the night. You need anything else? A extra blanket? Glass of water? Bedtime story? A goodnight kiss, maybe?"

"Nyet, nothing." It had gotten easier to keep anything from showing on his face when America said such things. But it felt strangely...sad too. It was a little sad to have to remember that those things meant nothing from America.

"If you're sure," America said with a shrug, taking the empty mug back from Russia. "Sleep tight, then."

"Spokoinoi nochi," Russia muttered back, laying back down and rolling away from America. The younger country flicked off the lights a second later, but Russia could still see the scrawny 'Charlie Brown' Christmas tree by the light of the window, with it's single red bauble catching the glow of a street lamp. He stared at it until he fell asleep

* * *

Warm. There was something very warm pressed up against Russia's back when he woke up the next morning. He shifted, thinking it was only Bo again...and then froze. Bo was asleep at his feet. And Bo didn't have arms, one of which was currently curled over Russia's stomach. Russia took a deep, uneven breath and pressed a hand over his chest, just in case his heart started to fall out again. It certainly felt like it could, pounding so hard.

There was a sleepy grunt, and Russia felt America stir. Cautiously, he glanced over his shoulder and saw America blinking blearily back at him. His eyes were so terribly blue without his glasses.

"Morning," America yawned. "Feeling better?"

"Be-better from what? Yesterday? I-I told you my heart was fine-"

"Nooo, I mean-" America stopped to yawn again, and withdrew his arm, to Russia's relief and disappointment, "Last night."

Last night? What happened last night? Russia took a discrete look under the blanket. They were both still in pajamas. So at least..._that_ didn't happen last night.

"You okay?" America asked, sitting up and grabbing his glasses off the bedside table.

"I-I do not remember what happened last night," Russia admitted, keeping his back to America and his hand still squeezing over his heart.

"No? You aren't just saying that 'cause you're embarrassed, are you? 'Cause it really wasn't a big deal or anything-"

Russia shook his head mutely. This sounded worse and worse with each passing second. He had an idea of what might have happened, he just sincerely hoped he was wrong about it...

"Well..." America began slowly, cleaning his glasses off on his shirt. "Like I said, it's not a big deal, okay? Just late last night, I couldn't sleep and was watching some TV and heard this awful moaning sound from your room – like I thought you were really in pain or something – so I go to check it out and you're all thrashing around and yelling in your sleep. I guess it was a really bad dream or whatever, so I try to wake you up and you keep flailing and shouting something in Russian...oh yeah, and then you almost hit me. I mean, your fist missed my face by an _inch_. Crazy. So I try to wake you up before you bean me and you kind of...didn't wake up, but you calmed down a little. Except you were still sort of...upset, so I figured I'd stick around until you were all better, right? But I was pretty tired, so I thought I may as well lie down, and you seemed more relaxed with me there, so I ended up staying. ...You aren't mad, are you?"

"...Nyet." Damn. Damn, damn, _damn._ First his heart and now this. Why did all the most embarrassing things have to happen in front of America? Now that he thought about it, he _could_ remember bits of a dream...the one when he was in a city, but there was no one there, not a single person, no matter how hard he looked...it wasn't the first time he'd had that dream. It tended to come when he was feeling particularly lonely...but what had brought it on this time?

"Good," America sighed with relief. "I thought you'd be kinda pissed off about me crawling in bed with you like that. Hey, remember how I used to do that when I was younger? Like when I'd stay at your house in the winter, and it was SO cold and-"

"Nyet," Russia lied, sinking under the blankets. "I do not remember that."

"Aw, you don't? I've got good memories of that-"

"Do you not have shopping to do this morning?"

"Oh shit, I forgot!" America groaned, smacking his forehead and climbing out of bed. "Damn, it's 10:00 already...now I've gotta rush."

"Why the hurry?"

"'Cause we've got dinner tonight with my states, remember?"

"...You did not mention a dinner."

"I didn't?" America sighed and rubbed his face briskly. "Dammit, can't remember anything these days. Well, I'll tell you now. I always have Christmas dinner with all my states the day before Christmas Eve, 'cause we're all usually doing our own thing on the real Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. But they complain about my cooking, and fifty's a lot to cook for anyway, so we go out to eat. We've got a reservation at T.G.I. Friday's and everything. And that's what we're doing."

"I see. Then I will find my own dinner tonight, da?"

"Don't be dumb. You're coming too!"

"You do not really want me there, America. It is your family, I would not belong there-"

"It's not like you're a stranger or something! All my states know who you are. Hell, Alaska can see you from his house. And it's not like there's a big difference between fifty-one people and fifty-two...they can just grab an extra chair for you, no prob."

"I will still be a third wheel-"

"Then I'll take you as my date or something," America laughed as he headed for the shower. "Whatever, you're coming and that's final!"

Russia didn't bother getting up for a while; he just stayed in bed and listened to the shower running (and the muffled sound of America singing Jingle Bell Rock in there) and waited until he heard America yell, "I'll be back later! See you!" and the slamming door before he got up. It wasn't worth thinking too much or arguing. He'd only be at America's house for a few more days anyway.

With a few hours to himself, Russia took his time in the shower and getting a late breakfast. He even managed to find a cereal in America's kitchen that was less than fifty percent sugar (a real accomplishment, he felt) and slowly munched through a bowl of that.

What was America shopping for anyway? Last minute presents? And why didn't he want Russia along? Surely he wasn't buying a present for Russia too, was he? It would be awkward if he was; Russia didn't have anything to give him in return. He wouldn't even know what to get for America. What did the younger country like? Video games? Russia's knowledge of video games was more or less limited to Tetris. Did America like Tetris? He glanced up from his cereal to see the door of America's bedroom was ajar. A little investigation might help give him some direction...and it was probably good to think about getting America something. That was a sign of good will, wasn't it? Giving America a gift after he invited Russia to the ballet and let him stay at his house? Yes, that was appropriate. And so was sneaking into America's room to figure out what to get him.

The inside of America's bedroom looked like a war zone. There were heaps of dirty laundry on the floor, a very old half eaten pizza on his dresser and a heap of wadded up blankets and pillows that Russia had to assume was a bed. Should he buy America a laundry hamper, or a vacuum cleaner? No, he probably wouldn't like that. There was a TV and a collection of video game systems and games on the opposite side of the room; Russia slowly navigated his way across, kicking an empty beer out of his path and flicking a pair of boxers off the top of the TV. Having found a rare spot of open carpet, he took a seat in front of the TV and started pawing through the collection of games lined up on the shelf beneath it. There were a lot of Japan's games, he noticed with a twinge of jealousy, and lots of fighting games, lots of war games, and...the original Tetris, Tetris Plus, Tetrisphere, Tetris World, Tetris: The Grand Master**, **Tetris Revolution, Tetris Splash, Tetris Party... He couldn't buy America a new Tetris game, as he owned practically all of them.

It was oddly satisfying to think that the younger country appreciated Tetris. Was he any good at it? Not as good as Russia, of course, but he'd have to challenge America to a few rounds some time. It would be nice to have some competition. Japan wasn't that bad, but he was more interested in his dating sims than good honest Tetris. Russia couldn't see the point in those games, or why they often seemed to involve large chested girls who fell down a lot and exposed their panties, sort of like Ukraine (except for the panty part, because she didn't wear skirts that often, or at least not ones as short as the ones the girls wore in the games.) It seemed like a very silly kind of game. There was no panty flashing in Tetris. Would Japan like it more if there was?

No, focus. He needed a good present idea for America, and it wasn't going to be in video games. He gave the room a long, hard look, still hunting for inspiration. America seemed to hate doing laundry...should Russia give him more clothes, so he could avoid having to do laundry even more? There was an American football on the floor...did he need any more sports gear? His eyes scanned the shelves. There were lots of framed pictures. There was one of America beaming and hugging a scowling England, one of America trying to keep Canada from punching the man next to him at a hockey match (Canada was so funny about hockey), one of America and Lithuania drinking coffee together, one of America and Japan watching cartoons, one of America and Germany at Oktoberfest...and at the end of the shelf, there was one picture, yellowed with age, of America and Russia. The style of the photograph and the clothes they were wearing said it must have been taken in the 1850's. It was plain and simple, just a black and white picture of the two of them sitting together, but...but they were both _smiling_, sincerely smiling, even though it was uncomfortable to hold a smile for a while when you had your picture taken in those days.... Why had America kept this? Russia burned all the pictures of them together after the Cold War began...why hadn't America done the same?

He lost track of the time, staring at the picture and their old smiles and happiness over a hundred years ago, until the digital clock on top of the shelf caught his eye. How had two hours passed already? America could be home at any time, so he quickly put the picture back, tiptoed past the heaps of laundry and shut the door firmly behind him. He could come up with a present for America later.


	6. Chapter 6

There was surprisingly little to do at America's house when America wasn't around. America was a good hour later than he said he would be (not that Russia had been watching the clock too closely) and Russia was having the worst time finding ways to occupy his time until the younger country came back. At first he went back to America's room to play Tetris, but he kept getting distracted by the old photo on the shelf next to the TV and before he knew it, the screen was filled with blocks, game over. No, staying in America's room was just going to keep making him uncomfortable. He decided to raid America's bookshelf and take something out to the living room to read, but the majority of America's bookshelf was devoted to comic books. By the time he was dug through enough to find copies of Twain, Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald and Steinbeck hidden among the comics, he wasn't even in the mood the read anymore. Even worse, he had run of vodka. There was really nothing to do.

In the end, he retreated back to the living room and turned on the TV in time to catch part of an old movie where a man was trying to kill himself by jumping off a bridge.

"I'm home!" America shouted from the front door. He had somehow managed to get the door open a crack without dropping any of his purchases, which was quite a feat considering how laden down he was with bags and packages. "Hey, I'm coming in. Close your eyes! No peeking!"

"What would I peek at?" Russia asked, glancing over the back of the couch.

"Your present, duh! Cover your eyes with your scarf or something. I'm taking it back if you look!"

America had wedged himself in the door, half-hidden and frowning with mock sternness until Russia sighed and pulled his scarf up over his face.

"Awesome, stay like that 'til I tell you," America said as he scuffled his way inside. "Hey, it's snowing, did you see? God, it's fuckin' freezing out there!"

"By which you mean it is only barely cold enough to snow, da? How delicate you are to call that 'freezing.'"

"So sorry we aren't _all_ half polar bear," America shot back good-naturedly. "Us normal folk who _don't_ have ice water in our veins think it's pretty goddamn cold. And keep those eyes closed, pal." There was most shuffling and scuffling, and a thump followed by a muffled curse before America finally said, "Okay, you can look now. But my room is off limits, alright? You aren't allowed in there."

"Was I ever allowed in there?" Russia asked innocently.

"Not really, but you're especially not allowed while I'm hiding your present there. If I find out that you're snooping around in there, I'll – oh, _It's a Wonderful Life_! I love this movie!" Whatever America was going to threaten Russia with was instantly forgotten as leaned over the back of the couch to watch the TV, propping himself up on his elbows. Russia turned back to the movie as well; the suicidal man had cheered up from the last part he'd watched, and was now singing while people gave him lots of money.

America sighed wistfully. "Warms your heart, doesn't it?"

"Nyet."

"Screw you, your opinion doesn't count anyway. Okay, enough chit-chat. We've got an hour until we need to be at the restaurant."

"And what is it you want me to do in the hour?"

"I dunno, put on something decent, make yourself pretty," America said, waving distractedly as he went back to his bedroom. "I mean, we're going to T.G.I. Friday's, so you don't have to get fancy or anything. Just be presentable."

Russia headed back to his own room and dug up a sweater and pair of slacks from his suit case that seemed reasonably 'decent' to him. And if it wasn't, well, the lack of appropriate clothes would just be a good excuse to stay home. He felt like he was intruding before the dinner even began, and it could only get worse from there. Then again, he almost always felt like he was intruding, no matter where he went.

America was waiting outside his door, wearing the ugliest sweater Russia had ever seen in his life. It was red, with a large Christmas tree sewn on the front. Parts of it were sparkly. Russia looked him up and down doubtfully.

"I thought we were supposed to look decent."

"This _is_ decent," America insisted. "Ugly Christmas sweaters are traditional."

"Just like obnoxiously bright lights, annoying music and low quality movies, da?" Russia muttered under his breath. America ignored that as he hustled Russia out the front door. It _had_ been snowing; there was a good inch piled up on the ground, almost enough to cover the grass. It was a warm, damp snow, but America still groaned and latched on to Russia's arm.

"Fuuuuck," he whined, apparently not noticing how Russia tensed up at the physical contact, "It's so cold!"

"Do you expect me to do something about it?" Russia asked dryly.

"Yup," America said, worming under Russia's arm and wrapping one arm around his back. "Lemme walk like this. It's warmer."

Russia's arm jerked back instinctively, but there was nowhere to comfortably put his arm that wouldn't be touching America, not when the younger country was clinging to him like that. He gave up and rigidly put his arm back around America's shoulders.

"See, isn't that warmer?" America laughed as they awkwardly walked down the street. His cheeks were turning pink already from the chill. Russia could feel his face coloring for a very different reason.

"I was not cold in the first place."

"Ugh, you really are half polar bear. Walk faster, would you? The restaurant is five blocks away."

America didn't let go during the short trek, but the minute they were inside he pulled back and started brushing the snow off his clothes.

"A real blizzard out there, huh?" he said conversationally, but before Russia could inform him that the weather outside wasn't anything near a blizzard, a little girl ran up and threw her arms around America's waist. She was still bundled up in a winter coat and scarf, and a pair of dark brown pig tails peeked out from under her knit hat.

"You're late, Daddy!" she said, giggling when he picked her up.

"Sorry, princess," he laughed, giving her a little kiss on the cheek. "How you been?"

"Cold! It's way, WAY too cold!"

"Well you don't get much snow out on your island-" America stopped, remembering Russia, and turned back. "Hey, you remember Hawaii, don't you? My youngest?"

"Privet, Hawaii," Russia said, trying to remember how to smile in a way that wasn't terrifying.

"Hi, Uncle Russia," the little girl chirped, and didn't notice how Russia's eyebrows shot up at 'uncle.' "Daddy, everyone's waiting inside already!"

"Alright, baby," America said, setting her back down. "You run ahead and tell them we're coming, alright?"

"I'll tell them you brought Uncle Russia too!" she said as she ran back where she came from. America finished peeling off his coat, exposing the hideous sweater beneath again, and headed in the same direction, waving for Russia to follow. They ended up in back room, where a good number of tables had been pushed together to accommodate the fifty states seated around it. No one there looked any older than America, and the average observer wouldn't have thought they were all related to him. Only a little more than half of them were white, and among those there were a handful with blue eyes, and even less with blond hair as well. There was a hodgepodge of skin, hair and eye colors, accents melding together and few snatches of languages other than English. The noise of conversation died down as America and Russia entered, and fifty pairs of eyes turned to look at them.

"Hey Pops! About time you got here!" New York yelled from the far end of the table.

"Yeah yeah, Hawaii already got on my case about it," America said, beaming at his large family. "C'mon, who wants to give their old man a hug, huh?"

Russia backed up against the door to avoid the rush of states clustering around America, hugging him with varying amounts of enthusiasm. It almost felt a little claustrophobic to Russia, but America didn't seem to mind the crowd in the least. They all finally returned to their seats after the hug-fest, and Russia found himself sandwiched between America and Alaska, who kept looking at him over the top of his kid's menu.

"So what are you all getting?" America asked as he leafed through his own menu thoughtfully.

"Fried chicken," Kentucky said without a moment's hesitation.

"There's a shocker," Maine said dryly, rolling her eyes.

"Bet you Dad's getting a burger," Idaho said in a stage whisper to Wyoming. "Bet you ten bucks."

"Well you're probably getting something with potatoes, aren't you?" Wyoming shot back.

"Don't you be talking bad about potatoes!"

"Do they have anything Cajun?" Louisiana asked, frowning at the menu. "I'd near kill for some decent Cajun-"

"They got something Cajun with shrimp," Mississippi pointed out to him, jabbing at the menu with his fork.

"I just want a good salad," California muttered to herself.

"I don't even know what to get," New Jersey sighed.

"Ugh, they've got too many burgers to chose from," America complained. "They all look good...what're you getting, Russia? Oh look, they've got beef stroganoff. That's Russian, isn't it? It sounds like it, with the 'off' part."

"So what'd you bring Uncle Russia here for anyway, huh Dad?" Michigan asked, looking back and forth between the two countries.

"Yeah, what's the deal?" Arkansas said suspiciously. "Wasn't he messing with our Georgia a while back?"

"Wrong Georgia," Georgia said. "Uncle Russia hasn't been giving me any trouble...'least not like that. And he better not either."

"Didn't you say he was your date, Dad?" Minnesota asked.

"He was kidding," Nevada insisted. "Seriously, can you imagine Dad and Uncle Russia together?"

"Why am I 'uncle?'" Russia butted in, trying to ignore most of what the states had to say about him.

"Well what else are we gonna call you?" Kansas asked. "'Mister' sounds too serious, you know."

"That reminds me," Texas pipped up, "Aunt Mexico says hi, Dad."

"Oh," America said awkwardly, fiddling with the edge of his menu. "So, um...how is she? Is she over the flu yet?"

"Getting there."

"Well, uh...tell her I say 'Feliz Navidad' next time you see her."

"Tell her yourself, Dad! Give her a call or something. You gotta stop ignoring her just because it's awkward."

"Fine, fine," America mumbled, and was spared having to continue that conversation by the arrival of the waiter. Unsurprisingly, America ordered a bacon cheeseburger, and Russia went along with the beef stroganoff suggestion.

The states got loud again once the orders were taken, all talking over each other while a dozen different conversations competed in volume. Somehow, America seemed to be contributing to every single one, leaning over to break up an argument between North and South Dakota before laughing at a joke Arizona was telling and then agreeing with Maryland about how lousy the weather was. It was noisy and chaotic and...oddly warm and comfortable. Dinners were never like this at Russia's house. Even when his family had been at its biggest, dinners were always quiet and tense. No one would take a bite until Russia did, and everyone stopped as soon as he was done. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath the entire time, watching Russia out of the corners of their eyes like he was a time bomb, and they were always quick to leave the table as soon as the meal was over. There wasn't any talking or laughing or smiling... He tried to make the meals a happier time, tried to start up conversations, but he never got anything more than a few polite answers to anything he said, and then silence again. He _wanted_ this kind of big loud family that could have big loud dinners together, and America seemed to have gotten it without even trying-

"Beef stroganoff!" the waiter called loudly, jolting Russia back to the present. "Who ordered the beef stroganoff?"

"Over here!" America called back, pointing at Russia. There was already a huge cheeseburger in front of America, Russia noticed. Most of the other states had gotten their meals as well, though no one had started eating yet.

"Has everyone got their food?" America asked, after the waiters had finished distributing the plates. "That's everyone? Okay, all of you close your eyes while I say grace."

"Do we have to?" Florida complained.

"It's tradition!" America said flatly. "So yes. Eyes closed, kids. You too, Russia. Okay. God, please bless our food and the new year, and please bless..." Russia opened one eye when America paused to take a deep breath, "Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin and Wyoming." He stopped to catch his breath before adding, "And Russia, bless Russia too. And may we all have a happy holiday. I didn't forget anyone, did I? Okay, dig in!"

The states seemed to be similar to America in at least one way; they all started eating with the same ravenous gusto as soon as America gave them the go-ahead. Russia picked at his beef stroganoff before trying a bite. It wasn't bad. He had certainly tasted better stroganoff, but he had definitely had much worse.

There was a tug on his sleeve, and he glanced over at Alaska, who was yanking on Russia's sweater with one hand and shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth with the other.

"Iff yoor foo' goob?" he asked.

"No talking with your mouth full," America said without looking up from his own meal.

Alaska obediently swallowed and tried again. "Is your food good, Uncle Russia?"

'Uncle' again. "Um...da. And yours?"

"Yup. You know what? I see you from my house all the time!"

"...So I've heard."

"Uh huh, I see Uncle Canada even more, but I see you sometimes too. I saw you a few weeks ago, and I waved, but you didn't see me."

"Throw a snowball at him next time," America advised between french fries. "That'll get his attention."

"I'll throw one back," Russia warned. "And I'll put ice in it too."

"No threatening my kids, bud."

"That was not a threat. I am telling you what will happen if he throws a snowball at me."

"Yeah, real mature. He's like, a fourth your size."

"I'll be taller when I grow up!" Alaska grumbled sullenly.

"'Course you will," America assured him. "You'll be taller than Texas one of these days."

The mood was relaxed as everyone finished their food, still chatting and poking fun at each other as they had earlier, but with the more subdued, sleepy air that came with full stomachs. The youngest two had had enough; Alaska's head was nodding and Hawaii was dozing on California's shoulder. America discreetly flagged the waiter down for the check, and started saying his goodbyes after paying. That took even longer than the greetings when they first arrived, and involved everyone hugging everyone else at least once (even Russia got a few, though he suspected those had been by mistake.) Finally, they all filed out and went their separate ways. It was snowing even harder when they got back outside, and America burrowed under Russia's arm again for warmth.

"Bye guys!" he yelled down the street at his states, waving furiously. "See you later! Merry Christmas!"

"They aren't all going back home now, are they?" Russia asked, giving in this time and wrapping his arm around America without any fuss.

"Naw, most of 'em are going to stay with New York or get a hotel. I mean, New York's neighbors will probably just go home, but it's awful far for Florida and California, and Hawaii and Alaska have a real long way to go, but you saw 'em back there. Past their bedtime. I know it's a lot of trouble to get them all together like that, but I love it every year."

"You're lucky," Russia said quietly, and was unable to keep a note of bitter jealousy out of his voice. "Your family gets along so well."

"What are you talking about?" America scoffed. "They argue all the time! They were pretty good tonight, but they can be nasty to each other. And to me too, for that matter. And it took me the longest time to get them all to meet together like this after the Civil War...my southern states didn't want anything to do with my northern states and vise versa, and even after I got them together they all just sat there and sulked. It was awful!"

"But they seem happy enough now," Russia insisted. "I-I wanted that. What you have. A big family that can talk and laugh together. I always wanted that, but it never turned out how I wished. All the countries I gathered together...they weren't family. They weren't _happy_." He stopped, swallowed. This was too much, too honest, far more than he meant to admit.

"Why can't you just have a small family, then?" America asked after a thoughtful silence. "I mean, you've still got your sisters. A family of three isn't too bad."

"But I wanted more than just them. It-it is lonely to only have two people."

"So have a small family and a bunch of friends. Problem solved."

"...You may not have noticed, but I do not have many friends. In fact, I don't think I really have any."

"Wha-...of course you do! You've got me!"

America said it so forcefully that Russia stopped walking and just stared at him for a moment, trying to think of something to say.

"F-fine, then I have one friend," he said at last, chewing the insides of his cheeks to keep back a smile.

"Bull shit, I should count at least twenty times!"

"...So I have twenty friends?"

"Bingo. And you're gonna want to count me a hundred times when we get home. I've got a surprise for you! Little early Christmas present I picked up."

America made Russia cover his eyes again when they got home, and was holding his hands behind his back when he allowed Russia to look again.

"Y'know, I got a call from Finland earlier today," he said sneakily.

"Oh?"

"Yup. And he said that instead of a glass a milk, I should leave Santa a shot of vodka this year. So, tah dah!" He pulled a bottle of Smirnoff out from behind his back. "I thought I'd pick up an extra bottle of 'Christmas cheer' for us to share."

"You like vodka?"

"Nope, which is why I got some Jack Daniel's for me." He pulled the second bottle out and waved the two of them invitingly. "What do you say? Drink with me?"

"If you think you can keep up," Russia grinned, ignoring how their hands brushed for a second when America passed him the bottle. It wasn't bad, this friendship. It wasn't all he wanted, but it could be enough. He could make it be enough, if only he could learn to ignore that nagging desire for something more, something closer and warmer, something Russia knew he could never have.

AN: Whew, I can't believe how far this thing's come already. My first chapter fic...whew.

I have a favor to ask of you guys! Obviously the story is going to end up at the ballet sooner or later...but my experience with ballet is limited to half a year of ballet class when I was six, a few performances of the Nutcracker I've been to see and an all-night marathon of Princess Tutu. So...I'm not a ballet expert. At all. So if any of you know a lot about ballet, drop me a line, tell me some info or fun facts or whatever. I especially need some stuff about the stylistic differences between Russian ballet and American ballet, but any info I can get would be appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

America's house was nowhere near cold enough to get even the smallest shiver out of Russia, but the warmth the vodka brought was welcome all the same. That was the nicest part of alcohol, how it made things pleasantly warm and slow. Of course, large quantities of alcohol also tended to make it a little harder to do some of the more complicated things in life, like walking, but Russia had a lot of experience being drunk. When you had that kind of experience, you could get pretty good at learning how to function when your brain was saturated with 100 proof vodka. For example, Russia didn't make silly amateur-drunk mistakes, like vomiting on someone's shoes or taking a piss in a closet. Unless he wanted to, because some people _did_ deserve to have their shoes vomited on and their closet pissed in. Russia could think of at least five off the top of his head. Maybe he should make a list.

The unfortunate thing was that no matter how much experience a person had with drunkenness, a certain number of drinks would inevitably cause the filter between brain and mouth to dissolve. Russia didn't realize that he had been monologuing until America slumped against his shoulder with a giggle, nearly spilling his whiskey.

"You're so funny," he slurred. "You're a funny guy. I'm not on your list, right?"

"I took you off, after you bought me vodka," Russia informed him, taking another swig of said beverage.

"Mighty kind of you."

"I am _always_ kind."

"Pfft!"

"What?"

"What what?"

"You just 'pfft'ed at me. I demand to know why."

"'Cause you're not nice at aaaall, man."

Russia considered this, swishing the remaining vodka in his bottle around. There was much less than when the evening began. "Da, not nice. I am a..." He paused, fumbled for a word, and settled on "mean person."

"Naw, you're not all bad. Like, earlier. 'Member earlier? You helped me decorate my tree and shit. Oh wait. Are you, like...allowed to have a tree?"

"Have a tree where? I think I am allowed to have a tree. Unless I steal it. But I don't steal trees. I have _standards._"

"So your boss is lettin' you have Christmas trees again? 'Cause I remember you talkin' a while back about how your Bolsh-...Bol...revolution dudes were all like, 'you can't have Christmas trees no more, 'cause we're not doing religion and shit like that.' What a bunch of a-holes."

"That was...uh, one, two...almost eighty years ago. I think. And then Stalin let me have trees again for the new year. That was nice."

"Aw, Uncle Joe? But letting you have a tree is like...a not-douchey thing to do. Seriously out of character for him. Okay, we're not talking about him. Totally killing my good mood."

"What _do_ you want to talk about, then?"

"Uh..." America scratched his chin, and then took another gulp of whiskey. Russia watched his Adam's apple bob. "Okay, who was your favorite boss?"

"Why?"

"'Cause it's as good a thing as any to talk about, so spill."

"Mm," Russia hummed thoughtfully, leaning back into the couch cushions. "I liked Catherine a lot. But she was always...how to say it...trying to make me be more cultured. Or polite. Or something. 'Wipe your boots before you come inside, Ivan! Your scarf isn't a napkin, Ivan! Don't be so loud when we have sex, Ivan, the whole Winter Palace can hear you.'"

America dissolved into giggles again. "Oh _dude._ She had you _whipped_."

"Not whipped," Russia huffed, starting to fold his arms before he remembered he was still holding a bottle of vodka and would have spilled it all over his sweater. "I was...the opposite of whipped. What is the opposite of whipped? Because that is what I was."

"Suuure," America drawled. "See, I didn't have that kinda problem, 'cause I never banged any of my bosses. Not that I didn't want to. I mean, dude. _Teddy._ Teddy was awesome. That was a real American man, right there. And JFK," he sighed sadly. "I fuckin' loved his smile, y'know? But he was all Catholic. It wouldn't have worked, even if he had lived. Sucks, right? The ones you can't have."

"Da," Russia agreed sadly. "I wanted Peter, my first Peter. He was so tall. And...what is the word...big personality, da? But I was never good enough. Never _European _enough." He took another long gulp of vodka to take the sting out. He _hated_ feeling inferior, hated that Europe would always be something he wasn't, something he could never be.

"Fuck Europe," America growled. "Who wants to be European? Fuck that, man. You and me, we don't need that shit. Jus' do our own thing, am I right?"

Even dulled by alcohol, America seemed to burn. He probably felt the same bitterness, Russia realized. Always the outsider, always the _other_, just like Russia.

"I will drink to that," he said, holding his bottle out. America tried to clink their bottles together, missed the first time and almost shattered both the bottles with sheer force on the second try.

"Cheers!" America crowed happily before taking another sip of his whiskey and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Know what? Hey Russia. _Russia_. You know what?"

"What?"

"We should team up. Seriously. The whole world would be just..._nothing_ against the two of us. We could be...I dunno. Amerussia."

"Russiamerica."

"Fuck no, my name is _not _going after yours."

"I would not have minded," Russia mumbled. "I would not have minded being...being with you. Like that."

"Yeah, it would have been cool if we were partners," America sighed. "I just...wish we could go back and not do the whole Cold War thing, y'know? It just fucked stuff up. Why did we ever fight? That was stupid." He stopped for a minute, and Russia was about to agree with him, it _was_ stupid, it all seemed so stupid and pointless now, but America started talking again before he got the words out. "But I had this whole thing planned out. How it was going to end, if we killed each other. If we really did take it all the way to the end of everything, I wanted to say, 'to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee.' I had it all planned out, I was gonna say that to you, right at the end."

Russia stopped, bottle halfway to his mouth and stared at America. America stared back.

"'Cause it's a kick-ass line, right?" America tried to explain, waving his bottle so dramatically that he almost smacked Russia in the face. "Don't you, like...want to have an awesome line to say at times like that? It sounds awesome, but you gotta have the perfect moment for it, or you just look like a dumb ass. And like, I wanna have the perfect moment to say, 'here's lookin' at you, kid,' but the timing's never right for it. But I wanna say it to someone. Just 'cause. Best romantic line ever. I don't even know what it means, that's how romantic it is."

"You can say it to me," Russia blurted out. A little warning bell went off in his head, reminding him not to say these things that could give anything away. He ignored it; America was still leaning against his arm, so close and warm and...and drunk. America wouldn't notice.

"Say what?" America asked, looking up at him curiously. His glasses were slightly crooked. Russia wanted to pull them off.

"That line. That line you wanted to say."

"Naw, not the right moment-"

"For practice, then?"

America went still, and for a single terrifying second it felt like he had seen through everything. But then he grinned sloppily and chuckled. "Awright, practice. C'mere, big guy." America leaned closer, steadying himself against Russia's shoulder and cupping the older country's chin in one hand, pulling their faces closer. "Here's lookin' at you, kid." He leaned back and laughed as soon as he said it, which was just as well; Russia might have been tempted to kiss him if they stayed there too long.

"Perfect," Russia whispered, and quickly took another drink of vodka. His throat had gone dry.

America frowned at him, squinting slightly. "What's up with you, huh? You're looking all weird."

"Not weird," Russia insisted, hiding his discomfort behind another drink.

"Uh huh, weird. You're always like this, dude. Like...secrety. _Secretive_, yeah. Why can't you just tell me what's up, maaan."

"Nothing is up."

"Then why're you making that face? C'mon, tell me your secret."

"Can't," Russia said sadly, before swallowing the last of the vodka.

"Why noooot?" America whined.

"Because....because...it would be bad, da?"

"Naw, it wouldn't. Look, I'll tell you a secret, okay? Then you gotta tell me yours."

"I do not want your secret. Probably something silly."

"Uh uh, my secret is a big deal. Okay. Brace yourself. Sometimes, I pretend I'm Canada when I go out. 'Cause, y'know...people hate me. But they don't hate him. So, easier, right?"

"I-I knew that," Russia said, caught off guard by how sad America suddenly looked. "I already knew that."

"You did? Fuuuck, man. Not cool."

"And I want to do it too, da? Pretend I'm someone else. My people do, sometimes, like yours. Pretend they're Ukrainian, or something. Anything but Russian. And-and I would too, if I was a woman. I'd pretend to be her. Not me. I don't like me."

"Well shit, _I_ like you," America said flatly, dropping his bottle to the ground. It wasn't completely empty, and spilled whiskey on the carpet. "You better not pretend to be Ukraine around me. 'Cause that would be lame. And weird."

"Then you can't be Canada around _me, _da? Only fair."

"Only if you tell me your goddamn secret already."

"I told you a secret."

"But not _the_ secret. Not why you...you go all weird and quiet sometimes, and give me this look and just...act strange, more and more. I wanna know why."

"Why?" Russia groaned, wishing he had more vodka. He had gone through the whole bottle, but that wasn't enough to drown out the ache and need in his chest. It was only enough to make him stupidly talkative and honest. Dammit.

"'Cause I want to know what's wrong. So I can fix it."

America had gotten heart breakingly close again, close enough to touch and yet completely off limits.

"Can't fix this," Russia muttered, looking away. "Not you, not me."

"How d'ya know that? Let me try, you stupid...stupid." He grabbed Russia's chin again, forcing him to face America once more. His eyes were so terribly, beautifully blue behind his glasses. Stupid glasses, hiding those eyes from Russia.

"I hate your glasses," Russia suddenly blurted out, clumsily trying to pull them off America's face. America tried to swat his hands away, but Russia managed to grab them and drop them to the floor.

"I need those, dumb-ass," America grumbled. "And that wasn't your secret. Gimme my glasses and talk."

"_Can't_," Russia moaned. "It-it will ruin everything. Can't. You won't like me anymore if I told you. Won't be my friend."

"I will too! C'mon, just tell meee."

"_Nyet,_" Russia said, but America was leaning in again, and their noses were almost touching, and those blue eyes were so...so...everything, there didn't seem to be anything else in the whole world except those eyes. Nothing else seemed to matter.

"Ya lyublyu tebya." The words just slipped out, and a thousand warning bells went off in his head, telling him to _stop right now_, America probably didn't know what that meant, he was still safe, but for that brief moment, he just didn't _care _anymore. "I love you," he translated. "Always, _always, _but I can't say that or everything will be..."

Those beautiful blue eyes went impossibly wide, and the magnitude of what had just happened finally clicked in Russia's head. He had said it. Really said it, out loud. And America had heard it, and understood and...and everything was over now.

"Your stupid eyes," Russia muttered, choking on a laugh that felt more like a sob. "Your stupid, beautiful eyes, they made me say it, they've ruined everything." And because it was all over anyway and he was too drunk to care if it made things worse, he seized America's collar and kissed him.

Historical Notes:

Oh hey, there are some history bits this time! Christmas trees were banned for a short period of time in Russia after the October Revolution, but the ban was repealed by Stalin (one of the very few not-horrible things he did, apparently.) The trees became a New Years tradition, and the star at the top was said to represent the red star instead of the Star of Bethlehem.


	8. Chapter 8

Russia was not a lucky country. If he had been lucky, he would have forgotten everything that had happened the previous night. But he wasn't lucky, and woke up under a pile of blankets with a throbbing headache and every damn minute of his drinking binge with America engraved in his memory. He remembered finally saying the words he had hidden for centuries and...and he remembered a kiss, very brief because America had tensed up with disgust again, just like he had the first time Russia kissed him, and the small part of Russia's mind that _wasn't_ soaked in vodka made him pull away, stagger to his room and lock the door behind him before he could do anything else stupid. He had almost wished America would follow him, but there wasn't so much as the tiniest knock on the door, so he hide under a cave of blankets and let the alcohol help him fall asleep.

He had a nightmare again at some point, and woke up alone in a cold sweat, without even Bo for company, heart pounding and nausea twisting his stomach. It was the same dream from before; he was in an abandoned city, completely empty of people or any sign of life, and somehow he knew that it was his fault, he had made things this way... He crawled out from his blanket cave long enough to grab a tissue from the box next to the bed and blow his nose. He wasn't crying. His nose was just running a bit. He wasn't crying.

He dozed off after that and woke up again without getting much more sleep, but it was almost dawn at that point anyway, so he just lay in bed and watched the room get lighter and lighter as the sun came up. Around 8:00 he heard the shower running; America must have woken up. How much did _he_ remember from last night? Anything? Everything? Nothing? He had been awfully drunk...was it too much to hope that the alcohol had at least wiped away the last part of the night from his mind? Russia was never lucky, but why couldn't he be, just this once, just this one time...

He stayed in bed a while longer, listening to America thump around the house, and finally ventured outside the bedroom after almost an hour of suspicious silence. There was no America in his room, the bathroom or the living room, but there was a note from him in the kitchen. It read:

'Hey Sleeping Beauty,

Gone to run some last minute errands, be back later, maybe around 3:00. We've got dinner reservations at 5:00, so be ready to leave about 4:30. Ballet after that! :)

Merry Christmas Eve! :D

- America

P.S. Call Ukraine, I talked to Canada and he said she was worried about you.

P.P.S. Call Belarus too. Because she's your sister and it's Christmas. Don't be a baby about it.

P.P.P.S. I made coffee, there's still half a pot in the kitchen. Black coffee's the best hangover cure, so drink some if you're still feeling like crap. :)'

That was...oddly promising. America was always so transparent with his feelings; surely he wouldn't be so friendly and lighthearted if he remembered any of the awkwardness from last night. He probably wouldn't have left a note at all if he remembered, and there certainly wouldn't have been any smiley faces. Russia let out a tiny sigh of relief. Maybe he had gotten lucky for once. Maybe America didn't remember a thing. So why did he still feel so miserable?

First things first, call Ukraine. Russia poured himself a cup of coffee, punched Canada's number into America's house phone and waited. One ring, two, three, and Canada finally picked up.

"Bro, can you call back later?" Canada groaned on the other line. "I've kind of got a pot hangover going on here, and I-"

"This is not America," Russia said in his most friendly voice. The awkward silence on the other line said that his friendly voice wasn't very effective.

"Oh. This...uh, I guess this is Russia, eh?"

"Da. Did you say you were smoking last night? I certainly hope you did not let my sister have any-"

"Um, no! I didn't get stoned with your sister, ha ha, why would you think that? A-and we didn't make out on the kitchen table afterward either. Just in case you were wondering."

"I was not wondering, but that is good to know, da? So, may I talk to her?"

"Uh, sure. Just let me...um..."

There was some fumbling on the other line, and then he heard Ukraine say, "Hello?"

"Good morning, sister."

"Oh..." Ukraine said slowly, apparently having a little trouble getting up to speed this morning. "Oh, is this Russia? You're staying at America' house? Oh, I'm so glad! I was so worried about you after you called me a few days ago. I really didn't think you wanted to do anything on the 24th. I mean, you never did before, and you usually didn't even want to do anything on the 7th, and I'm so sorry I made plans with Canada without talking to you. I didn't think you'd care. But it's so good you found someone to spend time with and I talked to Belarus and we'll both be available to stay with you on the 7th, and....brother? Are you alright?"

There is a strange phenomenon in which some children, after falling down or skinning their knee, apparently don't feel pain until they see their mother, after which they remember that they are hurt and cry very loudly. Russia found himself experiencing something similar; he had been relatively composed all morning, but as soon as he heard Ukraine's voice, a lump formed in his throat and wouldn't go away.

"Fine," he said, wincing at how tight his voice sounded. "Just fine."

There was a sigh on the other line. "Brother, what's wrong? You don't sound fine at all."

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong."

"You can tell your big sister if something's bothering you."

Russia swallowed twice, still failing to get rid of the lump. "Just...a mistake. I said something last night that I shouldn't have. To America."

"Oh. Is he angry?"

"I-I don't know. I don't think he would be angry, just...it is not something he should know about."

"Have you talked to him about it?"

"I-I am hoping he does not remember. We had a lot to drink last night."

"Brother-"

"I don't know what I should do...if he remembers. It will ruin ev-everything." His voice cracked on the last word and the lump in his throat seemed to double in size.

There was silence while Ukraine thought this over. "Is it really that bad? Just because of something you said?"

"D-da. It will be. If he remembers."

"Hm...w-well...for now, why don't you act normally and assume he doesn't remember. Just be nice and hope for the best, and if he does remember...well, I guess you can apologize and say you didn't mean it."

The lump became slightly less restricting. "That is...good advice, sister. Should I buy him a Christmas present too? He said he bought me one, and he's already given me a ticket to the ballet..."

"That would be nice. And it might take his mind off whatever it was you said to him."

"I will, then. What should I get him? I couldn't think of anything yesterday."

"Um...I-I think you'll have to decide for yourself, brother. You know him better than I do."

"Da, that is true. ...Thank you, sister. I feel a little better now."

"I-I'm so glad! You...um, you can call me any time you need something. E-except for the money I owe you, please give me a little more time-"

"Don't worry about that now."

"Right, well, um! I-I'll talk to you later, brother! I love you!"

"Um...I love you too, sister."

"G-good luck with America! Bye!"

There was a _click_ as she hung up. The lump in Russia's throat had almost disappeared, but his chest tightened up again for a very different reason as he prepared to call Belarus. She was still at Lithuania's house, as far as he knew, and it was a relief when Lithuania answered the phone instead of her.

"Good morning. Is this America?" Lithuania asked when he picked up.

"Nyet, just Russia. Privet."

There was a sharp clatter across the line. "Oh! Um, sorry Russia, I dropped the phone."

"Did I surprise you that much? So silly, Lithuania."

"Er, well, you did surprise me, but I've just been having trouble holding things in this hand. Belarus was so excited when I asked her to stay with me that she, um...squeezed my hand a little too tight."

"My sympathies. Is...she around?"

"She's still sleeping. Do you want me to wake her up?"

"_Nyet!_" His voice came out as almost a shriek. "Um, ah...th-there is no need for that. Just, um...tell her I say happy holidays? And um...t-tell her I love her. I-in a completely platonic fashion. Please emphasize the 'platonic' part."

"She'll be happy to hear from you. Are you sure you don't want me to wake her for you?"

"I-I am sure she needs her rest. Um...happy holidays to you as well."

"L-likewise. Er, goodbye then."

Russia put the phone down quickly. Maybe he _was_ going to be lucky today. The letter seemed to hint that America didn't remember anything, Ukraine had good advice and he had managed to be a good brother without having to deal with Belarus directly. Now he just needed to find a good present for America before the other country returned and maybe everything would be fine. The clock on the wall said 10:30...that gave him a little more than four hours. And he had seen stores around the city when they went out to eat...surely he could find something there. Feeling more sure of himself than he had all day, he grabbed a shower, got dressed and headed out.

Russia felt considerably less sure of himself once he finally got out and remembered that he had no idea what to get America, or even what store to start looking in first. With no leads, he decided to explore the first one he came to: a bookstore. It was terribly crowded, more than he had expected. He shuffled through the crowd to a display of calendars, scanning the shelves for one America might like. There were lots of ones with puppies, scenery from various locations and...his eyes fell on one with sunflowers. Fields of sunflowers, close ups of sunflowers, even a pretty picture of one covered in frost for a winter month-

"Can I help you?" a voice said, dripping with apathy.

Russia turned to the speaker: a teenage girl with a tag on her shirt that read, 'Hello, my name is Sarah! How may I help you today?' The girl herself looked considerably less enthusiastic, and was chewing a piece of gum aggressively.

"I am looking for a gift," he said, frowning down at her. She seemed irritatingly unimpressed by his scowl.

"Yeah, you and the rest of the city," said Hello-my-name-is-Sarah, rolling her eyes. "What _kind_ of gift? I'm supposed to be helpful here."

Russia hesitated. As annoying as the girl was, maybe she could offer some advice. "A gift for a friend."

"A girlfriend?"

"Nyet, a male friend."

"Like, just a friend-friend, or are you guys dating or what? I wanna be clear on this."

"...Just a friend," Russia said firmly.

"Okaaaay," the girl said, blowing a large bubble with her gum and popping it with a sharp little crack. "So, like, what's your friend like?"

"American. He is very American."

"And that means...what?"

"Exactly what I said. He is American."

"Uh, so is almost everybody here. That's not really gonna help."

"He likes typical American things," Russia snapped, losing his patience in a hurry. "What part of that is difficult to understand?"

"Look mister, I don't get paid enough to try to read your mind and figure out what your boyfriend wants for frickin' Christmas-"

"_I told you he is only a friend_-"

"Oooh, the annoying Russian guy doth protest too much-"

A beeping sound from a walkie-talkie on Sarah's belt interrupted them. Sarah heaved a sigh and pressed a large red button on the top.

"Yeah, whaddya want?"

"Where are you, Sarah?" a voice crackled. "Some kid puked in front of the card display. Go get a mop and take care of it!"

"No way!" Sarah moaned. "Let someone else do it!"

"Girl, you're seriously gonna get fired if you don't stop being so lazy-"

"I'm totally not being lazy! I'm just...um, helping a customer! Yeah, I'm seriously busy with this guy. And y'know, the customer comes first, so see ya later!"

She quickly pressed the button again and grabbed Russia's arm, ushering him deeper into the store.

"So tell me more about your not-a-boyfriend," she said, suddenly much more helpful since it was getting her out of cleaning up vomit. "Like, you guys been friends for a while?"

"A little over two hundred years, da."

She snorted a laugh. "Cute. Okay, so you've been buds for a while. What else? And don't just keep saying that he's American and likes American stuff. You gotta be more specific."

"He likes video games. And horror movies, even though he can never sleep after watching them. And...planes, he likes planes, all kinds of planes. And space, especially aliens."

"Okay, so...we don't have any video games or movies...maybe a book on planes or space? We'll put that on the 'maybe' list. Keep talking."

"Ah...he likes trying to help people, even if he gets it wrong a lot of the time."

"'Kay."

"And he is very enthusiastic. Annoyingly so."

"Gotcha."

"A-and charming. He is...oddly charming."

"I hear ya."

Russia arched an eyebrow at her. "...You are only pretending to listen so you don't have to leave and clean up a puddle of vomit, da?"

"You got it, wise guy. And my shift ends in an hour, so, y'know...I got other stuff to think about. Got a date tonight."

"Ah."

Sarah twirled a piece of her hair around a finger and sighed in resignation. "Well, I still got an hour, and it's Christmas, so I'll help you out. Your guy likes space, right? I've got an idea. Follow me."

She disappeared behind a bookshelf so suddenly that it took Russia a few seconds to figure out where she had gone. He stood on his toes to see over the shelves and caught sight of her strolling purposefully towards a section of shelves marked 'Astronomy and Space Sciences.' He jogged to catch up, and by the time he caught her she had already pulled a large hard cover book off the shelf.

"Okay," she said, clearly pleased with herself. "My boyfriend wants to be an astronaut, so he reads stuff like this all the time, and he said this book was a good one." She held up the cover for Russia's inspection. It read, 'The Space Race and Beyond.' "See, this one's nice, 'cause it's got tons of pictures and stuff. Everybody likes nice pictures, right? But my boyfriend says this book's real nice, 'cause it's kinda optimistic about the US and Russia improving relations and stuff now that the Cold War's over. Like, the whole last two chapters are about the stuff they could accomplish if they worked together in space. Look."

She opened to a place later in the book and pointed. There was a drawing of a hypothetical space station, apparently a joint effort between countries: there was an American flag and a Russian flag side by side in the corner.

"Like that, huh?" Sarah said with a grin. "You've got a real goofy looking smile going on, mister."

"I am impressed," Russia said, forcing the smile off his face and pulling the book out of her hands. "You have actually helped me."

"Y'know, your friend isn't ever gonna be your boyfriend if you don't work on your attitude," Sarah said dryly, blowing another bubble with her gum as they walked back to the front of the store. "But you're welcome."

The book was paid for, along with a cute bookmark shaped like a rocket that had caught Russia's eye at the check out, and there was still plenty of time before America came home.

"Good luck with your guy friend!" Sarah called after him as he left.

It had started to snow again, leaving a fine white dust over everything. America would like that, wouldn't he? He seemed to enjoy a little snow. Some snow and a present for America, dinner and a ballet later...the evening could turn out fine after all, so long as America didn't remember anything from the previous night. And even then, Ukraine was right; maybe he could insist that he didn't mean anything and talk his way out of it, if America _did_ remember. Yes, that was a good plan. Things weren't damaged beyond repair yet...but the thought only caused Russia's recovering spirits to sink back down again as he trudged through the layer of new snow to America's house. He knew better than to wish for something so stupid, but a little part of him didn't want America to forget.

AN: Oh lord, I'm so sorry I ever said I was going to finish this by Christmas. Ow, my hands. But I'm not giving up yet! One more chapter tomorrow night, and possibly an epilogue on Christmas Day. I've got most of it drafted out, it just needs to be written down...oof, so tired.


	9. Chapter 9

The several hours Russia had to himself should have been more than enough time to finish his present and prepare for the ballet, but he ended up wasting two full hours trying to write a message to America in the front cover of the book and then turning the house upside down looking for wrapping paper and a bow. By the time he was finally satisfied with the presentation of his gift, there was only an hour left before America came home. Luckily, the old suit he had packed to wear to the ballet still fit perfectly. His shoes pinched, but they had always been uncomfortable. It was difficult to find dress shoes in his size, so he simply had to get used to his toes being cramped for the rest of the evening.

Having finished all his preparations, Russia settled on America's couch again to wait. He found another Christmas movie on TV (there seemed to be nothing else on) and spent some time watching a somewhat macabre movie about a skeleton taking over Christmas.

"Hey!" America sang as he returned, letting in a gust of cold wind before he could shut the front door again. "It's a blizzard out there!"

"Maybe you should spend some time at my house, da? I can show you what a blizzard really is," Russia said lightly, keeping his voice calm and his eyes on the movie.

"Yeah, I'll pass. I'm not a big fan of that mini ice age you get every year. We have _normal_ blizzards at my place. I don't even know what to call the weather at your house, you freak of nature," America teased from the door, tugging off his snow boots. He sounded perfectly normal, exactly the same as before. Good, this was a good sign.

"I would rather be a freak than a delicate little flower like you," Russia said sweetly, glancing back over the couch. There was a faint jolt of anxiety when America looked up from his boots and their eyes met for a second, but it passed soon enough.

"At least this delicate flower is charming and handsome and a good singer to boot-...hey! Are you dressed for our night out already?"

Russia glanced down at his suit and uncomfortable shoes. "Da. Is that a problem?"

"Nope, I was just wondering. Stand up, lemme get a look at you!"

Russia's brow furrowed at the request, but America kept waving his hand to urge him on, so he reluctantly stood, feeling like a bug under a magnifying glass. America put his hands on his hips and looked the larger country up and down slowly before giving an appreciative whistle.

"Not bad! Not bad at all! You clean up pretty nice!" There was a hint of a laugh in America's voice, and for a second Russia wondered if he was being mocked. He looked up, ready to pick a fight, but there was only warm sincerity in America's eyes, and the words evaporated on his tongue. "Guess I better get ready too," he continued, heading for his room before Russia could think of anything else to say. "See you in a few!"

Russia sighed and returned to the movie. The rag-doll girl was talking to the skeleton. Russia decided he quite liked her. He watched to the end, which had a happy ending like all of America's Christmas movies, Santa saved from a grisly fate and all going back to the way things were before. Apparently the skeleton and rag-doll got together at the end. Russia found that satisfactory.

"Yo, I'm done!" America called from his bedroom. "We gotta leave soon. Are you ready?"

"Da, ready," Russia answered, grabbing his present from his hiding place under a cushion on the couch and tucking it inside his jacket just before America came out.

"Y-you 'clean up nice' too, da?" he said awkwardly, trying not to stare. That was an understatement. America had come up with a very tasteful gray suit and red tie, and had somehow managed to smooth down his cowlick. America looked..._sophisticated. _Russia suddenly felt a little unfashionable in his older suit, and almost had a hard time believing it was the same country...at least until America looked at the clock on the wall and said, "Oh mother fucker, we're late! Alright, let's move. We're gonna hafta haul ass now." Nice clothes or not, it was still America.

Despite their slow start, they managed to get to the restaurant in plenty of time (although they had to run part of that way, and America almost slipped on a patch of ice and had to cling to Russia to regain his balance.) To Russia's surprise, America had picked a nice little Italian place for them to have dinner.

"Sorry I couldn't find a good Russian restaurant for us," America apologized after they were seated and ordered their food. "The only one I know of is the Borscht Bowl Club, and that place is kinda seedy."

"I have my own food all the time at home," Russia insisted, waving him off. "And I always did like Italy's food. I am a little...surprised by your choice, though."

"Why?" America asked. "'Cause it's not McDonald's? ...Alright, I confess I got a little help here. I mean, fine dining isn't really my expertise, and I've got no problem with ordinary cheap food, but I needed something nicer for tonight. I wanted things to be special. So I called Italy, and he gave me some advise on clothes and restaurants he liked the last time he was here and so...here's the result."

"I thought the magician was not supposed to reveal his tricks," Russia said, tipping his wine glass back and forth thoughtfully. "You almost fooled me."

"What, you thought I figured all this out on my own? Naw, this kinda stuff isn't me. But I wanted you to have a good time, so..." He shrugged and took a sip of wine.

Russia licked his lips, took a deep breath and reached for the book hidden in his jacket. "I-I appreciate you...letting me stay here...and th-thinking of me...and, well..." He trailed off awkwardly and passed the present to America.

"Aw man, you didn't have to get me anything!" America insisted. "And I left your present at home-"

"It would be rude of me not to, da?" Russia said firmly, twisting his napkin in his lap where America couldn't see. "Open it. I want to know if I picked a good present for you."

"I'm sure you did," America said, grinning bashfully as he ripped off the paper. "Oh, it's a book! A space book! Oooh, it's got some nice pictures-"

"There is a note inside the front cover," Russia mumbled, tying his napkin into knots.

"Huh? Oh, you're right! Let's see...'Dear America, I hope very much that we can work together and be partners one day, in space and in all other areas of life.' Um, there's something scratched out here...and then, 'Thank you for your recent kindness, it means more to me than you know. Your friend, Russia.' And um, there's some Cyrillic under that, I can't read it."

"It says 'Merry Christmas and Happy New Year,'" Russia said faintly. Suddenly he regretted the note. It sounded so trite, so cheap, nothing like what he really wanted to say...

"Thanks," America said softly, and Russia finally looked up from his lap. America was still looking at the note, smiling fondly down at it. "Really, I...this means a lot."

"It-it is only a small thing-"

"Don't put it down, man. You clearly put some real thought into this. Thanks, really. I'm just sorry I left your gift at home."

"You already gave me a ballet ticket and let me stay with you for a few days. That is enough."

"Nah, the tickets were free and I've _liked_ having you around. I gotta give you a real gift too. And it's a good one, too! I can't wait to see your face-"

They were interrupted by the arrival of their food. They ate in silence, and Russia snuck glances at America at regular intervals. So far so good. America seemed normal enough. If anything, he seemed more cheerful and excited than usual, but it was Christmas Eve, so that was to be expected. And he hadn't said a word about the previous night...

They finished their meal without event and continued on foot to the ballet, America again huddling against Russia for warmth.

"You d-don't mind w-w-walking like th-this, d-do you?" the younger country asked through chattering teeth. "I'm n-n-not built for th-this kind of w-weather."

"Not at all," Russia assured him, wrapping his arm tighter around America's shoulders. "I do not mind at all..."

America was only staying so close to keep warm, so it shouldn't have bothered Russia when America instantly slipped out from under his arm once they got to the ballet. Platonic male friends would have no more reason to walk arm in arm, would they? No, he needed to be more sensible about these things. He was expecting too much.

They shuffled their way through the crowd and found their seats, not front row but close, and right in the center.

"Pretty nice, huh?" America said after they sat down. "I know it's not your place, but it's not bad, right?"

"I have not seen any dancing yet. I reserve my judgment," Russia said, leafing through the program without really looking at it.

"I guess you've seen The Nutcracker a couple of times before, huh?"

"Just a few times," Russia laughed. "I saw the very first performance in St. Petersburg, back in 1892. Ah, things have change so much since then."

"Understatement of the century," America said dryly. "So did you know Tchaikovsky back then?"

"We met a few times...I did not like him much for a while, but I warmed up to him later. I was sorry when he died too. Cholera, very nasty. And even nastier if it was suicide, but I was never certain if he made himself sick on purpose or not."

"Kind of a weird suicide, if it was. I mean, why not just shoot himself or something? _I'd_ rather shoot myself than get cholera again. I got it once back in the 1840's. Worst stomach ache of my entire life, man."

"You do not have to tell _me_," Russia said heavily. "I had more outbreaks of it than I care to remember. And the people make such a fuss when you try to quarantine them-"

"This is a downer conversation. Let's talk about something happier. Like, what do you know about this ballet? I mean the New York City Ballet. D'ya know how it was founded?"

"A little. It was founded by...Balanchine, da?"

"Well..." America opened his program and pointed to a black and white picture of a man. "There's George Balanchine, and yeah, he founded The New York City Ballet, back in...um..." He scanned the program quickly for the date, and continued, "In 1948. Yeah. The version of The Nutcracker they're putting on tonight is his. And he came from St. Petersburg, y'know, so..." Russia waited for him to make his point. "This whole place is kind of...like the product of my people and yours, you know? I just...thought that was kinda nice. That we could come here together. ...God dammit, this all sounded a lot less lame in my head."

"I did not think that sounded lame," Russia said quietly. "And I have not seen Balanchine's version of this ballet before, so...it will be a new experience, da?"

"I'm impressed at how open minded you're being," America joked, already recovered from his embarrassment. "I half expected you to be a real elitist asshole about all this. 'Blah blah blah, Russian ballet's better than American ballet, blah blah, it's going to suck.'"

"I told you, I am reserving judgment," Russia said, lowering his voice as the lights started to dim. "Quiet now."

Historical Notes:

The New York City Ballet was indeed founded in 1948 by George Balanchine and Lincoln Kirstein. Balanchine was born in Russia, but his parents were Georgian. He choreographed his first work while he was still a teenager, and came to the US in 1933. His version of the Nutcracker was first performed in 1954, and has become an America Christmas tradition since then. His version is also one of the most popular in the US. He was a real pioneer for ballet in America and helped make it what it is today.

Tchaikovsky of course wrote the music for The Nutcracker, and his music was far more popular than the ballet itself for quite some time. In fact, the very first production of The Nutcracker in 1892 wasn't very popular at all. Alexander III liked it, but it was no where near as well known and loved as it is today.

Tchaikovsky's death was unusual, and the details are still a mystery today. Officially it was said that he died of cholera, but there has been speculation that he intentionally drank contaminated water to commit suicide, perhaps because his homosexuality had been discovered. There are lots of theories about exactly what happened, but it's hard to prove anything for certain.

Cholera was nasty all around, but it was especially horrible in Russia. There were some pretty bad riots as well, in response to the anti-cholera methods (quarantine and so forth.) This was before the germ theory of disease had caught on, so people didn't really understand that they were getting sick from drinking contaminated water at that point. By the time Tchaikovsky was born, this was better understood, and people were much more careful about boiling water before drinking it. Cholera was mostly considered a disease of the lower class at the point, which makes Tchaikovsky's death from it even stranger. Cholera can be an extremely fast killer; some strains have an incubation period of only twelve hours, and death can come mere hours after the symptoms appear, from extreme dehydration.

On that cheerful note, Merry Christmas, guys!


	10. Chapter 10

There are times when a performance is so engrossing that the audience is entirely captivated, unable to notice anything else around them, with the possible exception of someone shouting 'fire!' or a falling chandelier interrupting the production. This was not the case for Russia. It wasn't that the show was bad (it was neither the best nor the worst he had seen) but the occupant of the seat on his right kept elbowing him every five minutes and thoroughly breaking up his focus on the ballet.

"So how are you liking it so far?" America hissed in Russia's ear, after yet another sharp jab in the ribs about three fourths of the way through Act I. He had already asked this three times before.

"It is different," Russia whispered back, giving the same answer for the fourth time. "No more questions until intermission."

It _was_ different. Roles had been swapped, parts of the story were changed, the costumes and style and everything was different, though often in ways that might not stand out to someone who hadn't seen as much ballet as him. It wasn't _his_ Nutcracker. The dancers didn't flow like his, and there were little changes, different steps and positions that stuck out but...maybe that was the point. This wasn't his Nutcracker; it was America's.

Intermission wasn't entirely necessary for a ballet of that length, but it came anyway, lights glowing back to life as the audience shuffled and chattered.

"Well?" America asked expectantly, thankfully skipping on another elbow jab.

"Well what?"

"What do you think? You've seen some dancing, let's hear some judgment."

"I have said it several times before. It is different." America was still staring, waiting for more of an answer, so he tried to continue. "Not better or worse, is what I am trying to say. It is...yours. But your dancers are much less fluid than mine, and not all the changes are for the better. And the ballet is not finished yet, so-"

"But you're having fun so far?" America persisted. His expression was oddly concerned. "Da or nyet, which is it?"

"Da," Russia allowed. "Fun so far." And it had been, in it's own way. He had attended so many ballets on his own, sandwiched between strangers, which didn't matter when he was only there to watch the performance anyway, but...he didn't mind having someone to sit next to, even if the someone had a very sharp elbow.

The lights began to dim again and the audience fell obediently quiet again. More changes, more differences, which bothered Russia less and less the more he watched. America didn't jab him for quite some time, and he took a quick peek at the younger country out of the corner of his eye. America was watching intently, eyes locked on the stage. The light from the stage was reflecting off his glasses, and with a bit of difficulty, Russia turned his attention back the ballet as well. America was surprisingly well behaved for a while...until half-way through the Trepak, when he gave Russia yet another bruising elbow in the ribs.

"Hey Russia-"

"_There are other ways to get my attention_," Russia whispered sharply, but he was ignored.

"Hey, can you do that?" America pointed at the stage.

"Can I what? Dance?"

"Yeah! Like that! With all the jumping and kicking and stuff."

Russia paused, trying to judge whether or not America was teasing him. "I used to," he whispered at last, after deciding that he wasn't being laughed at. "I doubt I could do it very well now. Out of practice. I used to dance all the time, but times change."

"Wanna try later at home? I'll push back the couch, give you some room to show your moves." _Now_ America was teasing, but Russia couldn't find it in him to be annoyed.

"I will probably trip."

"So what? You'll get a bruised ass and I'll have a good laugh- _ow!_" America yelped as Russia stomped on his toes, clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. Fortunately, the music drowned him out. Russia braced himself, waiting for a retaliatory hit, but America just slapping his wrist lightly and whispered, "Behave yourself, asshole. We're at the ballet."

America returned his attention to the performance, but left his hand resting over Russia's wrist. Was he doing that on purpose? That slight weight and warmth of the younger country's hand made it almost impossible to concentrate, but Russia couldn't bring himself to pull away. After all, he had been to the ballet so many times in the past, but holding hands with someone, especially America, was a much rarer experience. Not that it was really holding hands, but if he pulled his hand back slightly it would be almost the same, close enough for his imagination to fill in all the gaps. But America might take his hand away if Russia moved, so he stayed very still and tried to pretend that it meant something, that they were holding hands together in the dark theater.

America's hand went away when the ballet ended and the lights came back on, just like Russia knew it would (so why was he disappointed when he saw this coming?)

"Okay, final judgment! Let's hear it," America said as they filtered out.

"Fun," Russia said firmly, letting a smile twitch up the corners of his mouth. "Different but fun. I prefer my own ballet, of course, but I...enjoyed tonight."

"Really? You aren't just saying that to be polite?"

"I do not often say things just to be polite."

"True!" America laughed, giving him a little punch on the arm. "Whew, I'm relieved! I was hoping you'd have a good time, but I was a little nervous, y'know?"

"You did not seem nervous," Russia said, frowning. What would America have to be nervous about?

"Ha, good to hear. Oh maaaan, look at that," America moaned, pointing out the window. "Still a blizzard!"

"I keep telling you, that is no blizzard."

"Don't care," America sang playfully, sticking his tongue out. "Well, since you're immune to the cold, except for when I dunk your heart in ice water-" Russia winced at the memory of physical discomfort and humiliation, "-how about we go for a walk?"

"_I_ might be resistant to a little snowfall, but I did not think you were so hardy. You would not rather go straight home?"

"Nah. I can handle a little cold," America insisted, waving off Russia's concern. "And it's not bad if we walk close together, so...you want to?"

"Where would we go?" Russia asked, suddenly feeling fidgety under America's gaze.

"Central Park's not too far," America suggested. "Wanna go there for a bit? It looks nice in the snow."

"I-if that is what you want," Russia allowed, slipping his arm back around America's shoulders as they stepped outside. It wasn't a blizzard by any stretch of the imagination, but it _was_ snowing harder than before. America threw an arm around Russia's back, pulling them so close that walking was almost difficult. There was too much noise outside for conversation, and Russia let America steer them towards the park in silence. The crowds dissipated as they drew closer, and by the time they reached the park they were practically alone. Still they continued deeper in, until America stopped them in front of a park bench.

"Pretty nice at night, isn't it?" he said proudly, looking back at the glowing city. "It's supposed to be kinda dangerous around here at night, but-"

"But surely the two of us can handle any criminals, da?"

"My thoughts exactly," America agreed as he dusted snow off the park bench and sat down, motioning for Russia to do the same. The wind had died down, taking a lot of the bite out of the low temperature. The park was so quiet at night too, oddly peaceful, even more so because snow had a way of making things seem soft and muffled. It wouldn't have been too bad to stay out there for a while, just sitting there together. Maybe America would even accidentally almost hold his hand again.

"Listen, can we talk?" America said suddenly. His eyes were straight ahead, staring out across the city and snow-filled air.

"Talk about what?"

"About...uh, last night."

It was lucky that America was staring off into the distance and not at Russia; it gave him a few seconds to compose his face and voice into something calm and unconcerned. "We can talk about last night, da. Sadly, I remember little. It was maybe a mistake to drink so much-"

"You didn't seem that drunk to _me_."

"But I must have been. I can only remember pieces of last night, and I had a terrible headache this morning."

"What _do_ you remember?" America pressed.

"Just little things. Silly bits of drunken talk. Why? Did I...did I say something?"

America sighed heavily, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Yeah. You did."

"I-I...You understand that people sometimes say things they do not mean when they are drinking, da?" A note of panic was slipping into Russia's voice, and he stopped to swallow it back down.

"But sometimes they say the things they really do mean, too. Drunks can be awfully honest," America insisted, frowning off at nothing.

"They can be. They are not always. If I said something to offend you last night-"

"It wasn't...you didn't offend me. You just...you said something, and I wanted to know-"

"It was only talk," Russia pleaded, wishing it didn't _sound_ like pleading. "W-whatever it was, I am sure I did not mean anything-"

"You _do_ remember, don't you?" America cut in, and Russia almost choked on his own tongue. "You remember what you said. You wouldn't be so damn nervous if you didn't remember, right?"

Russia sagged forward limply. It would be futile to deny that he remembered at this point...but he could still insist that it meant nothing. He could still-

"Did you mean it?" America asked, turning to look at Russia before the larger country could order his thoughts. "Do you...do you _love _me? Seriously?"

Russia tried to get the words out, he really did, but his vocal cords refused to obey. "N-nyet," he finally managed, but he had hesitated too long. His silence had already answered the question.

"You're lying," America said softly, and there was something almost like wonder in his voice.

"I-I am sorry," Russia blurted out, standing up quickly. He hadn't drank anything more than two glasses of wine at dinner, but he suddenly felt drunk. The ground tipped dizzily under his feet, and he grabbed the back of the bench to regain his balance. "I am," he continued hoarsely. "I am so sorry I said that. Can...can you forget...can we pretend I never-"

America's hand came down heavily on his shoulder. Russia wanted to run, catch a cab, get to the nearest airport and fly back home, he could ask America to mail his things back later-...but that hand had him rooted to the spot. He couldn't move an inch, and he couldn't fight back at all when America pulled him back around to face him and grabbed his collar and pulled him down and...

...And suddenly America was kissing him. Russia had never been struck by lightning before, but he imagined it felt something like that; cold and shivery all over, but somehow burning, _scalding_, sending prickly goosebumps up and down his body. It probably ended as abruptly as lightning strike as well, because suddenly it was _over_...but America was staring up at him, hopeful and expectant-

No. No, that wasn't it at all.

"Stop," he gasped, pushing America back weakly. Why had all his bones suddenly turned to jelly? It wasn't _fair_, he was supposed to be strong, stronger than this... "Stop," he repeated. "I d-do not want this, I do not want pity-"

"It's not fuckin' pity," America growled, leaning back in again. Russia gave him another wobbly shove, not enough to stop a country who could pick up buffaloes even as a child, but enough to make America pause and pull back. "It's _not_! Shit, I'm not the kind of guy to kiss someone just because I felt sorry for 'em-"

"Of course you are," Russia whispered miserably. "You like to be the hero, like to try to make things better for others..."

"Doesn't mean I'd lie about something like this! I-I'm serious, man! I...did that because I _wanted_ to-"

"Liar. You do not....d-do not..."

"Is it really that hard to imagine that I feel the same?"

Russia's head jerked up and down on its own accord. He kept his head down, staring at the snow between his feet. If he looked up he was going to be sick or start crying, and he _really_ didn't want to do either, especially in front of America. He felt small and pathetic enough without losing his dinner or bursting into tears like some stupid child.

"Y'know, for someone who's supposed to be smart, you're really fucking dumb," America said without any heat.

"Never said I was smart," Russia mumbled to his shoes.

"Well you sure act like a fuckin' know-it-all a lot."

"Because I have more common sense than you? That is no accomplishment."

"See, _there's_ the smart ass I know and love!"

"...Stop teasing. Please."

"Fine, I'll stop. But you gotta listen to me, okay? Okay. I..." America took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"You what?"

"Give me a sec! This is kind of hard. Okay. _Okay._ Look at me, I'm gonna say it for real this time."

Russia swallowed hard a few times, and slowly looked up once he felt confidant that he wasn't going to throw up or get teary. America's face had gotten red since the last time Russia looked at him, but his eyes were as piercing as ever.

America took one more deep breath and finally said, "I-I love you. There, I said it!" A weird little grin stole across his face. "I love you. Ha, it's easier to say once you've done it already. I love you! Hey, eyes back up here."

Russia's eyes dropped back down to the snow at his feet again. His eyes had started pricking dangerously. He couldn't look up now.

"Fine, don't look at me. I'm gonna keep talking. You know what? I was pretty fuckin' thrilled when you said that last night. No joke, I-I've..." his voice softened suddenly. "I've loved you for a really long time, alright? I-I just thought it was all me the entire time."

"_Liar._ Y-you always looked so scared-"

"What are you talking about?"

"W-when I kiss you. The first time...y-you were _scared_ of me, I know you were. E-everyone always is!"

"Are you talking about the meteor shower again? The time I broke your window?"

"D-da."

"Goddammit, I wasn't scared of you!" America snapped angrily, stomping his foot in frustration. "Where the hell did that even come from?"

"You looked terrified," Russia whispered faintly, wishing he could just stop talking and go back home to his quiet, empty house and his vodka. "You-your eyes got so big, and you tensed up-"

"And it had to be because I was scared of big bad you, huh?" America said dryly. Russia could almost hear him rolling his eyes. "Couldn't be that I was surprised or anything. Or that...that I was just kinda caught off guard 'cause that was my first kiss."

The breath caught in Russia's lungs. "Was it?"

"Yeah, you asshole. And then you pull back all of sudden and won't talk to me or look at me, and I'm thinking 'shit, I must be a pretty lousy kisser, huh?' And then you pretend it never happened, so I figure it was just a fluke, didn't mean anything to you..."

"...Last night was not your first."

"Well you still kind of surprised me, didn't you? I-I really did think I was the only one...I thought you only saw me as a friend at best. I was surprised, okay? And you ran away again before I could tell you I felt the same. Plus, I was pretty smashed. My reflexes are kinda not awesome when I'm drunk."

It sounded good. It sounded wonderful. It all made sense and he _wanted _to believe it...more than anything...

"Hey," America said softly, and Russia saw his shoes step closer. "Are you okay? You look like you're gonna cry." The shoes stepped closer and closer again, and suddenly Russia found himself pulled into a tight hug. "Why's it so hard to believe me, huh? Why's it hard to believe I love you?"

"B-because....because...why would anyone?" Russia whispered into America's shoulder. He wanted to hug the smaller country, wanted to cling to him, never ever let go. But this was just a nice dream, and the dream would go away if he did that.

"Oh hell, you're gonna make me say it?" America whined as he rubbed Russia's back briskly.  
"Jesus, fine. Well, you're really fucking cute for one thing. I don't get how a guy as big as you can be so damn cute, but you really are. And you've got ridiculously pretty eyes-"

"You are talking about yourself."

"Wha....fuck, you're making me blush, man. Okay, thanks, but I'm talking about _you _right now. You wouldn't be such a big deal if you were just cute, y'know, but you...you're so fucking tough, you know that? I can't even believe the shit you've lived through, but here you are. That's goddamn impressive. I _admire _that, okay? But more important than all that is that you...you get me. And you listen. Even if it's just to make fun of me, you listen. It feels like nobody else really gets me. But you...I feel like you understand the parts that no one else even tries to get. And it's not just 'cause we've both been superpowers...it's 'cause we're the outcasts. We're the freaks that are never good enough for Europe or anywhere else, and it pisses me off, but...but we can be freaks and outcasts _together_. That makes all the difference in the world, that I don't have to be alone with this. I feel like I can be stronger, when I've got you around. Like I can last through anything, do anything. It's...it's a real good feeling. So I want...I want to be with you all the goddamn time, so I can feel like I'm _more_, and so maybe you can feel like that too, 'cause God knows you deserve...you deserve a lot more than you get. You deserve to feel strong and safe and _happy_."

America stopped to catch his breath, still holding Russia tightly. The honesty in his words seemed to fill up _everything_, make everything warmer and brighter. Russia took a deep breath through his nose and slowly, cautiously, allowed himself hug America back. And America didn't pull away, and the dream didn't disappear and...and a laugh was suddenly building up in his chest, making his shoulders shake as he held it in.

"Oh _fuck_," America moaned. "Are you crying? Come on man, don't..."

The semi-hysterical laughter finally broke out, echoing loudly around the park. It was useless to try to talk and reassure America; he was just laughing too hard. It was the most wonderful thing in the world to hear America start to laugh with him.

"You dick," America chuckled, smacking Russia's back without breaking the embrace. "Makin' me worry about you..."

"M-my apologies," Russia giggled, finally breaking away and smiling down at America. "I do not have much experience with this...this kind of thing."

"What, with somebody spilling' their guts to you and telling how much they love you like some lame loser? Yeah, I'm not really experienced with doing that either, so I guess we're in the same boat, huh?"

"What happens now?"

"What, you mean right now? Shit, I don't know. Didn't I just say that I'm kinda new to this whole deal?"

"I meant...what changes? Y-you say you love me and I...I love you too-" _God it felt good to say that._ "So where do we go from here?"

"I dunno," America said frankly, shrugging. "Why does anything have to change? Why can't we just be the way we've always been? Except, you know...more." He smiled on the last word, that brilliant smile again.

"How do you mean 'more'?" Russia could feel his face splitting with a smile too, and for once he didn't try to force it down into his usual blank grin.

"Well," America drawled, grabbing Russia's hand and squeezing tightly. "How about we go back home and find out for ourselves?"

* * *

Santa had been there by the time they got back home; the shot of vodka was gone and there were two presents under America's tree.

"Damn, Finland's _fast_ this year!" America cheered. "Hey, he left you one too!"

"Is it coal?" Russia asked, tipping his head thoughtfully at the square box addressed to him. "He does not usually give me anything, but when he does, it is almost always coal."

America gave the box a little shake. "Doesn't sound like it. Wanna open it? Oh wait, lemme get your present from me!"

America disappeared into his bed room, and Russia slowly unwrapped Finland's present. Coal wasn't such a bad gift. It was always good for burning, at least. But no, not coal this year. Instead, Finland had given him a book about the Winter War.

"Did you open you're present already?" America asked as he returned. "What'd you get? Oh, the Winter War? Wasn't that the one when Finland seriously kicked your ass-"

"_I won that war._"

"Yeah, but Finland says he was seriously outnumbered and still managed to send you back home crying like a little girl before the end-"

"You were not there, so _maybe you should not talk about it._ Anyway, Finland was kind enough to give me kindling for a fire. Very thoughtful of him. Do you think he's still on the roof? I would like to go..._thank him_."

"Naw, I think he's gone. You'll have to thank him later. Oooh, I got the new Silent Hill game!"

Russia stared at the ominous game cover. "Is it a horror game?"

"Yeah, this shit is great! I didn't sleep for a week after the last game," America said happily, as though the quality of a game could be gauged by how much sleep it deprived him of. "Okay, open my present now."

He pushed a flat package to Russia, which turned out to be the same sunflower calendar he had admired in the bookstore earlier.

"Like it?" America asked hopefully. "I wasn't sure what to get you, but I thought sunflowers were usually a safe bet with you."

"You thought right, dorogoy," Russia said, flipping through the pictures.

"What's that mean?"

"What does what mean?"

"Do...doro...that thing you just called me."

"It means...It is like 'darling.' I think that is the closest word."

"Oh," America said softly. His ears were turning red, Russia noticed.

"...Can this be part of the 'more' you were talking about? I want to say things like that."

"Y-yeah. I mean, why not? But I'm gonna find a cute pet name for you too, buddy."

"I look forward to it...dorogoy."

America laughed quietly, and suddenly closed the space between them. How had he moved so fast? "The 'more' can be more than just pet names, you know."

"I was hoping it would be," Russia said quietly as America pulled him down into another kiss. This time wasn't like lightning; it was slower, sweeter, warmer.

"Merry Christmas, babe," America said when they broke apart.

"You know that my Christmas isn't until January 7th, da?"

"Yup. What about it?"

"...What are you doing on January 7th?"

AN: Aaaaand it's done! Whew!


End file.
